A Revenge Reborn
by Blindluck92
Summary: Malcolm is not an adventurer you send to fetch your things when you feel lazy. He will not do your chores, he will not run your errands, and above all else he will NOT smile and nod whenever you ask him to do some pointless tasks. Malcolm kills gods for a living, and yet the Garleans, Ascians, and countless other idiots still just can't seem to help pissing him off.
1. Inquisitor Guillaime

**To those of you who already know who I am, I must apologize. This is not part of my Supernova multiverse, and I honestly don't know when I'll be getting back to any of that. It's just something I don't want to discuss for personal reasons, okay?**

 **For those of you who have no idea who I am, or what the previous paragraph was about at all, then you're in the right place. My friend, beta, and part-time complaint department Enkkidu got me hooked on Final Fantasy XIV over the holidays. I'm just now almost through Heavensward, and I've decided enough is enough. This series of revenge-centric oneshots is about just how stupid it is to piss off somebody that** _ **kills gods for a living**_ **.**

 **If it made you angry or sad in the Main Scenario, or really any major quest chain, it's probably gonna wind up here. This isn't a "nice" Warrior of Light, or even a "heroic" one at times. This story is about payback, not angst. For every fallen comrade, tragedy, and betrayal the Warrior has suffered, those responsible will suffer a thousand times as hard.**

 **So sit back, and enjoy the catharsis. And if there's any particular vengeance scene you'd like to see, or anyone in particular you'd like to see avenged, then leave a review and let me know. I will happily oblige if I can.**

 **Summary: If they'd just given him the location of the** _ **Enterprise**_ **, this could have all been avoided…**

 **Spoilers: FFXIV: ARR obviously.**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing. I don't even own this WoL, since it's not my actual main, but is a perfect fit for the story.**

* * *

Inquisitor Guillaime

 _Seventh Umbral Era: Year Five  
Coerthas Central Highlands: Snowcloak_

By the time Lord Drillemont was convinced that the wise and powerful "Inquisitor Guillaime" was a fraud, the damage was beyond measure. How many innocents had been framed and executed for heresy without even a second thought? How much blood had been spilt to slake the thirst of superstitious fear? How many _more_ innocents would have died at the word of a single false Inquisitor had the truth not been brought to light this day?

These were the questions nobody wanted to ask, let alone answer. The shame felt by the people of Coerthas was nigh palpable, for while they had been deceived by a Dravanian imposter, they had still _allowed_ him to murder their friends. They had done _nothing_ but sit by and watch as good people they knew to be Halone's faithful were sentenced to undeserved death.

There was nothing they could have done, some argued. False or not, Guillaime wore the mantle of Inquisitor, granting him an authority above reproach. Yet in their hearts, every last soldier and civilian in Coerthas knew these were but hollow excuses. They had allowed a butcher to act with impunity out of fear and cowardice. For if they had spoken out, they would be the next alleged "heretics" to die.

If not for a single, meddling adventurer known as Malcolm, the false Guillaime's crusade may have continued indefinitely. That was the liar's one mistake, even if he didn't know it yet. He assumed Malcolm would be scared off by the zealous nature of Ishgardians. That simply branding the adventurer as a "suspected heretic" would force the man to leave.

Thus it came as no small surprise to the false Inquisitor when he was proven wrong at Snowcloak during the "interrogation" of a young maid. Looking up, he saw the adventurer striding purposefully towards him with Lord Drillemont and several knights in close behind.

"My Lord Drillemont – what is the meaning of this interruption?" The false Guillaime motioned to the fearful maid at his side. "You are aware that I am at present conducting an interrogation, are you not?"

"Silence, villain!" Drillemont spat in disgust. "I name thee Heretic, murderer of Inquisitor Guillaime and countless innocents! You are a traitor to Ishgard, to your own kith and kin! Your sins are beyond measure – beyond redemption!"

Yet for all their indignation and anger, the false inquisitor met them with but a shrug and a laugh. A mad, demented cackle of a zealot. Not a zealot of the Holy See as everyone previously believed, however, but one that had left man in favor of the Dravanian horde.

As the maid fled the man now clearly _not_ Inquisitor Guillaime, the imposter calmed down enough to sneer at Drillemont. "Ah… grave allegations indeed. But you will find your logic flawed. How can I betray that which I owe no allegiance? No, Lord Drillemont – my conscience is quite clear, I assure you." With a smug smirk, the liar pointed at Drillemont and each of his knights. "I wonder… can you say the same? You whose hands are black with the blood of those whose only sin was to question your nation's crazed crusade!"

Now that the proverbial mask had come off, the false Inquisitor was really going all out, it seemed. Worse still, neither Lord Drillemont nor his knights staining the snow of Coerthas red with blood through inaction if nothing else. They had not once challenged his authority before today, after all, and the false Guillaime was taking the opportunity to pour salt on the open wound.

"You speak to me of Ishgardian _innocents_? Hah! All are complicit in these crimes, for _all_ live their lives by the-oof!"

His tirade was prematurely halted by Malcolm, who planted a mailed fist squarely in the Elezen's gut. The force of the punch was more than enough to silence the heretic imposter, going so far as to lift him off the ground and carry him a good five yalms before dumping him back into the snow.

"W-what?" the liar coughed in confusion

"Do you _ever_ shut up?" Malcolm growled, his voice a low, reverberating baritone. He was larger than most Midlanders, owing to his partial Elezen heritage, and people had long since ceased to insult him for his origins when met with the full brunt of his wrath. "These men may care for your pretty speech on the rights and wrongs of faith and heresy." He marched up and stomped down _hard_ on not-Guillaime's right knee, snapping it like kindling. As the man howled in pain, Malcolm bent down and grabbed him by his blue robes. " _I_ _don't_. But if you wish to speak of blame and blood, well…"

Lifting the imposter's own Dravanian rosary from his pockets, Malcolm knelt down, wrapped the rosary around his adversary's neck and started garroting him with it. The beads dug into not-Guillaime's flesh as the man clawed and clutched for air that simply would not come.

"Every moment I've spent freezing up here," Malcolm calmly explained as if strangling a full grown Elezen required no effort at all, "my friends have spent that selfsame moment in the custody of the Garlean Empire." Gasped oaths and incantations hissed past the imposter's lips as he called upon the power of his winged allies, but Malcolm merely tightened his hold, and the transformation from man to wyrm was brought to an immediate halt. "I would rescue them, but I know they would want me first to end the threat of the Primal Garuda. To stop Garuda, I need the _Enterprise_ , the airship to which you have denied me access from the moment of my arrival here in Coerthas."

Was he to be denied the strength of dragons now, at a time when he needed it most? The heretic imposter struggled frantically now, trying in vain to die with some semblance of glory. His captor, however, would not allow it.

"You would speak of blood, 'Inquisitor' or whatever in the Seven Hells your name really is," Malcolm rose to his feet, bringing his victim up with him. "Very well. You have cost me time I could not afford to lose, and so I shall exact payment in blood _you_ cannot afford to lose!"

In one swift motion, Malcolm spun around so that he held the rosary in front of him while the suffocating heretic kicked at the ground behind him, the axe on the adventurer's back digging into not-Guillaime's spine. With a final twist and a sharp tug, Malcolm snapped the bastard's neck and dropped his lifeless corpse in the snow.

Malcolm sighed before glaring at Drillemont with his odd, golden eyes, the color not unlike that found in the eyes an archetypical bird of prey. "If there are no further objections, I intend to enter Stone Vigil, kill everything between myself and the _Enterprise_ , and fly far, far away from this place."

* * *

 _Three Days Later  
Camp Dragonhead_

"My Lord!" a scout yelled as he burst through the door. Haurchefant turned just in time for the scout to salute before handing him a hastily-scrawled document. "Report on Ixal activity, ser. They're acting… strange."

Haurchefant's eyes scanned the document until he apparently found what he was looking for and smiled. "He did it! He slayed Garuda! That adventurer with the axe, Malcolm? He actually did it!"

Everyone in the keep broke out into applause at this news. If they only knew what had really happened, they would be less inclined to cheer…

For where one target of Malcolm's rage had fallen, another had risen to take its place. And still the white-armored Garlean woman, Livia, remained at the forefront of his mind, for all who came after him and his would pay in blood.

Such was the code of Malcolm, the vengeful Warrior.

* * *

 **To whoever reads this, I hope you like it. There's (probably) more to come. I'd like to say that with more certainty, but anyone who knows me already can attest to the fact that I've become far from a reliable author these days, let alone a consistent one. Assuming I do write more to this, however, the next target on the list is probably Livia, though if anyone wants to see a victim from an earlier point in the timeline, leave a review and let me know. I'm sure I can work something out.**

 **Until then, I invite you all to…**

 **Read, Review, and Enjoy!**


	2. Livia sas Junius

**A loud and preemptive no to anyone who asks if this is a sign I've already sorted out all my personal issues. I have not. In fact this chapter was 90% complete a week after I posted the first one, but things got so damn bad that I just haven't touched it until now. So for those of you who know what I'm talking about, no I'm not back to writing on a remotely consistent basis yet. For those of you who have no clue what this means, I'm sure it's not all that hard to piece together. Long story short, I'm not in a good place right now, I'm trying to get there, and I finished the last few paragraphs of this chapter during a spare afternoon. Now that that's settled, let's move on, shall we?**

 **This chapter isn't as... clean as the last one. Then again, Livia sas Junius is possibly one of the least sympathetic people we get to kill in this MMO. Not the least, but she ranks pretty damn high up there. Seriously, when I got back to the Waking Sands and saw what that bitch had done in my absence (which would have been a** _ **lot**_ **quicker if the Company of Champions had let me do my bloody job!)… well frankly there were no words. I wanted Livia's blood, plain and simple.**

 **At first I thought I'd be storming the nearest castle, but nooooo. Turns out I'm not getting payback until the damned endgame of the 2.0 main scenario. Being 16 levels and some two shitloads of filler quests away at the time, it goes without saying that I was** _ **pissed**_ **. That's why I rated not-Guillaime in the previous chapter as a revenge-worthy NPC; he wasted** _ **very**_ **precious time, both in-game and in real life, that I'd have preferred to spend kicking Garlean ass.**

 **And to top it all off, when we finally,** _ **finally**_ **rescue the Scions from Castrum Centri, I'm treated to a "lovely" cutscene of Livia going full Jack Bauer style interrogation on Minfilia. I'm looking at the screen thinking "this is it, there's no way that goes unpunished right?" Wrong, because I'm** _ **still**_ **not allowed to fight her! I got to see Yda trade one blow (they didn't even go a full round) but it just wasn't the same.**

 **Which is why, in addition to the actual fight with her at Castrum Meridianum, I've deviated slightly from the canon events that took place at Castrum Centri. Hope you all enjoy. Also, if brutality towards a physically inferior human being (or hyuran being in this case) makes anyone squeamish… you've been warned.**

 **Summary: Their first mistake was attacking the Waking Sands in the first place. Their second mistake was thinking that "the Eikon slayer" wouldn't pay them back. With interest.**

 **Spoilers: ARR 2.0 albeit with a few liberties.**

 **Disclaimer: I claim naught on this page. (And the fact that the Elizabethan prose is getting easier makes it clear I've been playing this game too long.)**

* * *

Livia sas Junius

 _Three Moons Ago  
Mor Dhona: Castrum Centri_

 _Malcolm could hear Minfilia's agonized screams echoing from deeper within the castrum. She was being_ _ **tortured**_ _, godsdammit! Worse still, this wasn't even first time it had happened, just the first time he could hear his friend scream in pain. The torture had almost certainly been a regular occurrence since their capture during the raid on the Waking Sands._

 _There was no other way about it. Every day Malcolm had wasted in search of airships or corrupted crystals, his Scion friends had spent that selfsame time at the "mercy" of their Garlean captors. As if the wrathful warrior needed any more reasons to be pissed off, those days truly had been_ _ **wasted**_ _. In the end, the Black Wolf himself arrived with some damned Allagan monstrosity in tow. And just to twist the knife, the weapon he called "Ultima" had effortlessly killed not just one, but_ _ **three**_ _Primals – Ifrit, Titan, and Garuda – and it had done so in mere_ _ **seconds**_ _._

 _Gaius' folly was to prioritize Cid's life above Malcolm's death, especially when he had the element of surprise on top of an Allagan weapon empowered by three consumed Primals. He squandered his golden opportunity to kill Malcolm at the Howling Eye, and he would not get a second one._

 _It was a mistake Malcolm had no intention of making as he marched purposefully through the castrum in his Imperial disguise. He smirked a bit at the thought of his current attire. It was hardly the same uniform anymore. Hyur he may be, Malcolm's imposing height demanded significant tailoring, to say nothing of removing all the bloodstains. Just to be on the safe side, there were several intricately woven glamours in place to mask the presence of his axe, chain, and anything else he carried that wasn't standard issue for Garlean personnel.  
_

 _Speaking of Garlean personnel, Malcolm took advantage of a blind spot in the patrol patterns to regroup with Biggs and Wedge. They were an odd duo to be sure, but their support thus far had been invaluable. Not only were they both godsdamned geniuses, but they were also defectors from the Garlean Empire along with Cid. They could operate these machines and terminals in Castrum Centri, things Malcolm was much more adept at breaking._

 _And break them he would. Stealth would only last so long, and it was just a matter of time before someone took inventory and realized that an entire suit of Reaper-class Magitek battle armor had "mysteriously" vanished. Ideally they would locate and rescue the Scions before that happened, but either way, once the alarms began sounding, all pretense of stealth would be thrown out._

 _Malcolm would not let his own thirst for vengeance consume him, however. This was, after all, a rescue operation. He would not jeopardize the lives of the few remaining Scions merely to satisfy his own bloodlust. Malcolm had been waiting for this day since Livia sas Junius had carried out her brutal raid on the Waking Sands. After all the insane shite he'd been through just to_ _ **reach**_ _this day, the Midlander warrior was confident he could wait a bell or two longer if necessary._

 _Though the screams of his friends coming from deeper inside the facility were making patience a_ _ **very**_ _difficult virtue. Rather than ignore them though, Malcolm forced himself to listen ever more intently. He let their cries of pain, fear, and outrage fan the flames of his rage to a billowing inferno that he would soon unleash upon all of Castrum Centri. All of them, every last Garlean soldier, was going to die. Hells, they were_ _ **already**_ _dead, as far as Malcolm was concerned. They just didn't know it yet._

 _And then he saw them. It had been a long, indescribably arduous, and often downright_ _ **pathetic**_ _journey, but the very instant Malcolm laid eyes on his Scion comrades, he could say without hesitation that it had been worth it. They were bloodied and bruised, some more than others, but they were_ _ **alive**_ _. Alive and barely twenty yalms away. He dared not blink for fear that to do so would cause them to disappear in yet another cruel twist of fate._

 _From cover, Malcolm assessed his friends' physical conditions, noting with disgust that Minfilia's was by far the worst. She'd been beaten repeatedly… and_ _ **recently**_ _, he realized with a barely-contained snarl._

 _Malcolm was a warrior, a berserker to be precise. Injury was as natural a concept to him as sand in Ul'Dah, and through the endless cycle of taking and giving out punishment he had learned a great deal about physical trauma. How to best inflict it, and what it looked like when inflicted by others. The latter was a concern because, contrary to popular belief, healers don't just_ _ **happen**_ _. They don't appear out of thin air, conveniently showing up in the nick of time casting restorative magicks on adventurers for every cut or bruise. They could work wonders, but at the end of the day, healers should be considered powerful allies, not a crutch obligated to keep reckless and ungrateful fools alive._

 _As a result, Malcolm elected to perform his own first aid whenever possible. It couldn't raise him from the brink of death, but it_ _ **could**_ _prevent him from nearly dying in the first place, and given how often the Midlander mongrel was staring down Primals all by himself, that was an invaluable skill._

 _And it was due to this skill that Malcolm recognized each injury that his Scion brethren had been forced to endure at Garlean hands. He recognized how Urianger favored his left leg every time he was forced to stand, and how Papalymo's shoulder was likely dislocated, and finally, how Minfilia had been struck across the face by someone wearing heavy gauntlets, and that she also had **at** __**least**_ _five broken ribs._

 _That did it for him. The time for waiting was over. It should have been over when Malcolm had had to bring a dead Sylph back to Little Solace and hear their cries of anger and loss._

" _ **Imperial Ones must pay! Imperial Ones must suffer!"**_

 _The words of Komuxio rang in his head like an angry mantra, and Malcolm knew he'd reached his limit. This was finally the point of no return._

" _ **Imperial Ones must pay! Imperial Ones must suffer!"**_

 _They_ _ **will**_ _pay. They_ _ **will**_ _suffer._

 _As Biggs and Wedge were debating whether to alert the castrum to their presence by breaking stealth, Malcolm simply up and walked into the storage tower. At that precise moment, an Imperial Signifer standing between the warrior and his comrades just happened to receive some_ _ **very**_ _bad news._

" _This is the third squadron," the Signifer droned. His eyes practically shot out of their sockets at what he heard next. "…A reaper? Seized_ _ **when**_ _? And this came to light only NOW?!"_

 _From their position, Biggs and Wedge could only watch in mixed amusement and pity as the Signifer's day went from bad to complete shite in a matter of seconds._

" _The culprits have left a trail!" he shouted. "Take as many men as you need and scour the area! I want that reaper found!"_

" _Looking for this?!" a deep voice behind the Signifer growled._

 _He had just enough time to see the missing Magitek reaper sitting outside the storage tower before a righteously pissed-off Midlander mongrel crushed his windpipe and tossed his choking body to the side. The commotion attracted the attention of the Imperial soldiers holding the Scions captive, who quickly sounded the alarums before attacking the intruder._

 _Not that it did them any good. Even their Magitek armor support was useless against this single man. Biggs and Wedge hardly got the opportunity to assist, visibly cringing as they witnessed the adventurer unleash_ _ **weeks**_ _of pent-up fury on every bastard with the poor luck to be in his way._

 _Malcolm, better known to Garleans as "The Eikon Slayer" had arrived. And now they would all feel his wrath!_

* * *

 _Present Day: Northern Thanalan  
Castrum Meridianum: Parade Ground_

Tribunus Livia sas Junius was equal parts astounded and disgusted as she observed the Eikon slayer from above. The savage just wouldn't _die_! Legionaries, Vanguards, Reapers, Colossi, it made no difference. Damn it all, the XIV Legion was throwing everything they had at this barbarian, yet _still_ he kept coming! This "Malcolm" acted less like a mortal and more like some implacable force of nature.

Or like one of the very Primals he had gained a reputation for slaying…

The description wasn't far off, if Livia were honest. He and his party of fellow ragtag adventurers had all but redecorated half the castrum with blood and the other half with entrails, leaving machina parts scattered wherever gore wasn't. Nothing survived their onslaught, and anything in their way was snapped like dry twigs in a tornado.

Malcolm and his "merry band" would come for Gaius and the Ultima Weapon.

The thought alone was unacceptable, and behind her mask Livia bit back a sneer. _No_! She would not lose everything! Not again! Ordering one final wave to engage the savages, she readied herself for battle.

* * *

Down below, Malcolm was listening to Cid on the linkpearl when he heard yet _another_ wave of Garlean forces approaching, including a Magitek Vanguard and two more Colossi. Hanging up on his friend, the Midlander mongrel and his small party of Echo-blessed allies all eagerly prepared to meet their newest adversaries – nay, their newest _victims_ – when a flash of white caught Malcolm's eye.

Snapping his focus to the left, the warrior saw _her_. There standing before the gates to the Praetorium, clad in white armor and piloting a matching white Magitek reaper, was Livia sas Junius. Number fucking one on Malcolm's (current) list of people to kill.

It was past time to cross her name off that list.

"You handle the cleanup!" Malcolm yelled to his band of adventurers. "The bitch is _mine_!" His four companions replied with loud and enthusiastic cheers and shouts of encouragement. They knew Malcolm well enough. He never fought for causes. He fought for _people_ , and if those people were taken away, he fought even harder for their memory. Their values lived on in his words, and more often in his deeds. If salvation was no longer an option, then as far as the Midlander mongrel was concerned, _vengeance_ was just as good.

So if Malcolm needed the four of them to handle a few soldiers and a couple of Colossi while he got long-overdue payback against the Tribunus Angusticlavius alone, they would happily oblige.

* * *

"Fools!" Livia shouted as Malcolm's companions destroyed her forces, _including the airship_ , with hijacked Garlean mortar cannons. "If you are resolved to die here, you might at least have done so without first making a mess of the place!"

Malcolm said nothing. He just stood there, allowing Livia sas Junius to dig herself a deeper grave, every word from her mouth serving as fuel for his prodigious fury. Looking at him with contempt from behind her mask, Livia continued, unaware and overconfident. "I see that Garlond is not with you. More's the pity, I had hoped to slay him myself. But never mind the traitor for now." At last she looked directly into his eyes, and somehow she _knew_ he was looking at hers. "I have so looked forward to this meeting… Malcolm." This earned her a raised eyebrow from the warrior, as Malcolm _sincerely_ doubted she was looking forward to this for the same reasons he was. "Yes, I know much and more about you. About your strength… and your hidden talents. I would sample them firsthand – and you _will_ indulge me."

Challenge issued, Livia piloted her Magitek reaper to rear its "head" and give the mechanical equivalent of a roar. Malcolm, however, remained completely unfazed by the adversary before him. Instead he effortlessly shifted his stance, lowering the head of his axe to the ground with a loud clang as he tightened his grip on the haft. In response to her request to sample his talents firsthand, he offered but one word in reply:

"Gladly."

And before the Tribunus could even attempt a target lock, the warrior was on the move, dragging the head of his axe along the ground, sending sparks flying as he charged forward like an enraged boar. By the time Livia knew what was happening, Malcolm was practically on top of her.

Or more accurately, _beneath_ her, as in he was directly underneath her Magitek armor. Positioned just where her guns couldn't reach him but he could sure as Hells reach her.

Letting loose an almost feral roar, Malcolm struck, widening his stance and gripping the haft with both hands as he flung the axe head off the ground in an underhand before putting his full weight into a devastating horizontal swipe. Head axe cleaved through the white Garlean plate like wet paper, shattering both legs, but the Midlander mongrel wasn't done yet. He allowed momentum to carry him around full-circle, striking the Magitek armor a second time, then a _third_ , each spin more destructive than the last.

When he came to a stop Livia's reaper was halfway to critical failure, and by the time Malcolm rested his axe on his shoulder, it had begun to explode. Of course the bitch jumped out, flipping and spinning the whole way before landing on the ground in front of him, giving off that same air of superiority as she folded her arms in front of her.

Malcolm allowed her to keep it too. Let the Tribunus delude herself into thinking she was the better fighter. It would only sweeten the taste of revenge when he proved her wrong one broken bone at a time.

"My lord was quite taken with you and the power you possess – the 'Echo.'" The way she spat out the word like it left a bad taste was almost amusing to Malcolm. "Naturally, I could not help but wonder whom this prince among men might be…" Livia shrugged in what could only be described as disappointment. "Only to discover that you are but another adventurer. No better than the multitude. Yet in spite of this, the masses hold you their champion, and shower honors upon your head." She was getting worked up now, truly upset that some common nobody had accomplished all that Malcolm had in such a short time. "It defies all reason. How is it that you could be such a thorn in our side? Wherever you appear, you leave havoc in your wake. You even slew Rhitahtyn, one of our very finest."

"If you say so," the warrior grunted. That Roegadyn had possessed more honor than most traitors, but he was still a traitor in the warrior's eyes. And if he was one of their "finest," then it was a miracle Garlemalde seated an empire at all.

Livia seemed not to have heard the jab, and if she had she chose to ignore it. "Well…I will not speculate. Truth be told, I couldn't care less how you have done these things. What matters to me is the fact that you have done them." Her arrogance remained, but she finally adopted a more ready stance. If you are allowed to continue, you will eventually deprive me of all that I have toiled for – all that is mine by right! My minions, my comrades…even my lord Gaius!"

Malcolm raised an eyebrow as the Garlean bitch flew completely off the chain, ranting and raving and possibly foaming at the mouth behind her mask. Oh, he was going to _enjoy_ the rebuttal when she finally shut up.

Still going strong, Livia screeched, "Well, _you cannot have him!_ His dreams and ambitions, his body and soul – they are _mine_ , do you hear me!? _All mine!_ _I lost everything once before! I will_ _not_ _suffer it to happen again!_ " Then she finally, _finally_ took a proper battle stance before making one final – and empty – proclamation:

"I will kill you, adventurer! Only your death can bring me peace!"

Malcolm's gold-yellow eyes flashed with murderous rage, and he slammed the head of his axe into the ground with enough force that it remained in place even after he let go. Then he strode forward, away from the weapon but still outside of Livia's reach.

"No, Livia sas Junius," he rumbled. " _Your_ death will bring _me_ peace."

The Tribunus paused, faltering as he parroted her words back with twice the conviction. "W-what?"

"Do you truly believe you are the only one to suffer? That I simply took up arms and fought for the Alliance as some kind of noble ' _champion'_ of Eorzea?" Malcolm laughed at the very notion, confusing Livia even more. "Not a chance! I am here for _you_ , Livia! You, who raided the Waking Sands and killed my friends! You, who executed my fellow Scions in their home, just as I butcher your fellow Garleans in yours! _You_ , who murdered Noraxia of Little Solace without a second thought! _YOU_ , who _kidnapped_ and _tortured_ Archons Urianger and Papalymo, Mistress Tataru, and Antecedent Minfilia! You speak of what _I_ have taken from _you_ , Livia sas Junius. Of how you will not suffer to lose everything."

Malcolm's anger was literally _glowing_ by now, a palpable aura of unbridled rage. "But _you_ drew first blood. It was _you_ who took everything from _me_ , with no time to mourn _those who were lost_ before I was forced to run the length and breadth of Eorzea for _those I could yet save!_ Now I return the favor a hundredfold! Everything you know! Everything you love! I will rip it from you cold! _Dead!_ _**Hands!**_ "

He took a stance of his own, unarmed and ready, not for battle but for murder. "Revenge will be the closest I shall ever know to peace."

Of course not a word of his logic sank in. Livia could not – would not – acknowledge the hypocrisy of her actions. The fact that she was to blame for the path of destruction he had carved, and would continue to carve, through Castrum Meridianum and the Praetorium, past her and straight on to Gaius was unacceptable. It was just so much easier to simply hate the adventurer and want him dead for threatening all she loved, even as he claimed to possess the _exact_ same motivation. Crying in fury, the Tribunus launched forward at near blinding speed and struck at Malcolm with a solid right cross.

It connected, that much was clear as she saw, heard, and even felt the satisfying impact as her armored gauntlet smashed directly into his face. A lesser man would be dead on impact, and yet Malcolm took the hit like it was _nothing_. He didn't even _roll_ with the punch, as if the attack was no more threatening to him than a gentle breeze. Worse still, the Midlander mongrel was _grinning_ at her, as if Livia's efforts to harm him were amusing more than anything else. The insane display of resilience had so shocked the Tribunus that she never even thought to follow through with a shot from one of her gunbaghnakhs.

"Tch," Malcolm sounded almost disappointed as he cocked back _his_ right arm, bloodthirsty grin still in place. "You even _hit_ like a Garlean!" he roared, emphasizing the word "hit" with one of his own, driving his mailed fist straight into Livia's white-clad center mass. The force of the blow was enough to send her flying over a dozen yalms back. As she crashed, Malcolm laughed darkly, a blood-red aura surrounding him, _feeding_ him to Livia's horror. He was drawing on anger and pain, both his and her own, to enhance the already-monstrous strength he naturally possessed. Bloodlust served as an literal fuel for this barbarian!

Livia had barely come to this conclusion, let alone risen to her feet when Malcolm delivered a spinning kick to the side of her head, knocking her right back on the floor again. Through the pain, she was vaguely aware of two things. First, he'd managed to shatter almost the entire left half of her ornate helmet with a single blow. Second, the savage's horrifyingly effective kick seemed… _familiar_ somehow. But that made no sense! All of Nero's combat data showed him wielding an axe and a chain against the Eikons, so why would she recognize-

"Aagh!" Livia's musings were ruthlessly interrupted as Malcolm's heavy boot came down on her midsection, breaking several ribs and likely cracking the rest. When he raised his boot as if to stomp on her a second time, the Tribunus forced aside the sheer agony in her head and chest, rolled out of the way just before his foot came down, and rolled up into a standing position. Her ribcage cried out in protest at the act, but she ignored the pain and focused entirely on the warrior that had caused it and clearly intended to cause more given the slightest opportunity.

"Broken ribs and a kick to the head." It was a statement, but Malcolm's tone made it sound more like a vow. "You know these injuries," he growled, golden eyes burning with unimaginable fury. "You _inflicted_ these injuries upon others."

Now she knew why the kick was familiar. "The Antecedent," Livia said quietly as understanding dawned on her. "I may have broken a number of her ribs while questioning her – without success I might add."

" _Torturing_ her," Malcolm corrected. "You beat Minfilia, mercilessly and repeatedly, and yet you _dare_ to stand there and call _us_ the savages?!" Livia truly didn't care what he was saying, but every moment he spent talking was a moment she had to recover and catch her breath. She'd be a fool not to use that to her advantage. But to keep him talking, she now had to remember exactly who she kicked…

Ah, it was not _who_ , she recalled suddenly, but _what_.

"You cannot seriously hold the beastman at the Waking Sands against me?" An odd sense of pride and superiority filled Livia at the knowledge that this "hero" would consort with the animals whose very gods he'd slain. " _That_ is why we call you savages, and rightly so it would seem."

"The _Sylph's_ name was _Noraxia_!" he shouted, daring Livia to suggest the beastman was anything less than a cherished friend. "And you _killed_ her! You killed her, and while you were busy _torturing Minfilia_ , I was handing her dead body over to her people in Little Solace, trying to explain how she died for getting in your way! They told me 'Imperial Ones must pay! Imperial Ones must _suffer_!'" His aura of bloodthirsty rage practically exploded, billowing like a vengeful flame, bathing the night sky in red with his incomprehensible fury. "I will make the 'Imperial Ones' pay. I will certainly make them suffer. And I will start right here, right now, with _**you**_!" His voice dropped to a whisper, never losing an onze of that near-tangible malice. "You will die knowing you failed, utterly and completely, to stop me from **_ripping your whole world apart_** ** _!_** "

That pride Livia had felt moments ago? It vanished _immediately_. Because all talk of philosophy aside, Malcolm _was_ a savage, and he _had_ slain gods, and oh damn how did none of this sink in before now? She was fighting a man accomplished _on his own_ what entire Imperial _Legions_ could only ever manage with heavy casualties and countless souls lost to tempering. And he had done it _thrice_. Yes, even Garuda was a victory for this warrior, as far as Gaius was concerned. Her lord had confessed to her privately that, had he waited much longer to deploy the Ultima Weapon, the adventurer Malcolm would have inevitably bested the Lady of the Vortex on his own.

No. Livia would not allow him to reach Gaius. Not now, not ever. She would die before letting it happen, and she would _definitely_ kill before letting it happen. It was time to end this. "You have made me _wroth_!" The Tribunus exclaimed, taking aim with her gunbaghnakhs and unloading with everything she had. Malcolm dodged the initial salvo, along every subsequent barrage too, always keeping just outside her line of fire. Her frustration rose until Livia found herself making the same mistake as before. Ignoring the pain and dangerously fresh injuries from her last attempt, the white-clad Garlean propelled herself forward, closing the gap and taking a swing at the warrior's head. He backpedaled _just_ in time to keep his head attached to his shoulders, and while this time she _did_ remember to follow through with a shot from her gunbaghnakhs, it made no difference. Malcolm anticipated the guns and right before Livia opened fire, the Midlander mongrel would counter with an inside block to whichever forearm she was about to shoot with, forcing the shot to go wide at the last possible moment.

She didn't know which was more infuriating: the fact that she couldn't hit Malcolm, or the fact that even when she _did_ hit him, Livia still didn't _hurt_ him. "Just _die_!" she screamed as the warrior backpedaled yet again.

" _ **You first**_ _."_

Those words, along with a soft clink of metal, were Livia's only warning before a shockwave of raw, overpowering force practically blasted her into the next Umbral Era. The Tribunus slammed into the back wall of the Parade Ground, hard, before dropping face-first onto the ground. Through sheer force of will and dedication to her lord Gaius, however, she managed to get up again. The sight that greeted her was _not_ a pleasant one.

Malcolm hadn't been "backpedaling" at all. He'd been _baiting_ her to press the attack while he moved ever further backwards, closer to the axe he'd left buried in the ground behind him. The axe now held firmly in his hand. The axe he'd used to overpower her with one blow. Not even a blow, she realized in pure horror, but merely the _force_ generated by one blow.

She cried in despair and punched the ground hard enough to crack it. This couldn't be _happening_! How could _metal and stone_ break more easily than this one, simple savage? This mere… _adventurer_!?

"Fractured ribs? Minfilia. Kick to the head? Noraxia. That one? That was for every fallen Scion at the Waking Sands. As scared and defenseless against your onslaught as you are now against mine." He let the axe fall so the haft was resting across his shoulder with the weapon's head behind his own. "It is for the fallen Scions whose corpses I personally dragged onto a wagon, only to watch as they were buried in _shared_ _graves_ because there was 'not enough room' to grant each of these noble men and women a plot of their own." He spat at the ground in disgust. "I could not properly bury them." He lifted the giant axe off his shoulder and growled. "But I can _avenge_ them!"

Livia's eyes widened. "NO!"

She took a defensive stance but at this point it was irrelevant. Catching her with a long length of chain, Malcolm dragged her back in and lifted her off the ground one-handed by the throat. Rearing back, the warrior brought his forehead in to smash apart what was left of her mask in a vicious headbutt that nearly blinded her third eye.

"That was for Urianger!"

She took a desperate swing at where his voice came from, only for a grip of pure steel to catch her forearm. She swung with the other fist, same result. Then Malcolm crumpled both gunbaghnakhs like they were made of paper before flinging her over his shoulder and onto her back _again_. Then he drove the pommel of his axe into the same spot where he'd stomped earlier to break her ribs.

"For Papalymo!"

She tried to roll over, to get up and fight, but Malcom brought the flat of his axe's head across her back and sent her right back down.

"For Tataru!"

After this, there were several blessed moments of nothing. Not a single sound or strike fell on her. It did not last. Livia felt the cold blade of his axe pressed against her neck and she knew it was soon to be over. The thought alone was too terrifying to acknowledge, even now. "No…" She whimpered pitifully, unable to keep the sobs from wracking her body, even when each one brought with it a fresh wave of excruciating pain. "It's happening… all over again…" her words came out in between the hiccups and gasps of agony and despair. "Please…" she begged him, _begged_ him now without an onze of her former arrogance. "I cannot bear it… Don't take him…away from me…" She feebly raised a single trembling hand up, stretching it heavensward. "My lord Gaius!"

The axe lifted away, and for a single, delusional instant Livia dared hope that Malcolm would show mercy. This hope was crushed to fine powder when next he spoke.

"And that is why I will take him away from you," Malcolm declared. "Because you cannot bear it." He knelt down in front of Livia and looked her in the eyes. "This is what my vengeance looks like, Tribunus. My enemies die knowing I am responsible for destroying that which is most precious to them. It is only fitting, I believe, as they would not _be_ my enemies had they not attempted to destroy what is most precious to _me_."

He stood back up and hefted his axe, ready to deliver the final strike. "Allow me to simplify it, Livia sas Junius." Placing a foot on her back and raising his axe for an execution stroke, he couldn't help but smile as he claimed his long, _long_ overdue revenge.

"Like you, payback is a _bitch_."

A single overhead blow removed Livia's head from her shoulders, ending her life at last. For a long, glorious moment, Malcolm laughed. He laughed like a man possessed, riding high on an almost intoxicating euphoria, born from nothing more than the simple fact that he had finally, _finally_ killed Livia sas Junius. He laughed not from any sense of humor, but from a joy only those who knew true loss could understand. At last, Malcolm had come face to face with the one who nearly took everything from him, and in retaliation, he took absolutely everything from her.

Well, not quite everything. Not yet at least. Turning to see his party of fellow adventurers, as well as Malcolm gave a small half-smile and nodded towards the Praetorium.

"Shall we end this?"

Their cheers, echoing through the burning remains of Castrum Meridianum, were his answer. The Black Wolf had issued an ultimatum. Time to offer a proper rebuttal.

* * *

 **And we are done for now. Yes, that's about how I'd get my payback against Livia. Probably more stabbing in my personal though since my main is actually a DRG.**

 **Okay, vague spoilers here, but for all those who have played far enough (or beaten) Heavensward, imagine a certain other axe-wielding warrior introduced** _ **way**_ **after the events of this chapter. After the events of the main Heavensward story, even. In your first encounter with him, he does the same "axe-drag-and-spin" thing that I had Malcolm do to Livia's Magitek Reaper. Yes the parallel is intentional.**

 **Like I said at the beginning, I updated this on a total whim, and because it was mostly completed already when my life went to complete and total hell. I'm probably not making another chapter here, or anywhere, for a while. However, if I did make another chapter for this… who do you guys want to see as the next target of revenge? Minor spoilers, but I'm thinking Nabriales is next. Before that though, I may describe some of the encounters between Malcolm, Lord Commander Aymeric, Second Commander Lucia. Oh, and Estinien. That guy thinks he's an expert on vengeance, only to discover the Warrior of Light could teach** _ **Nidhogg**_ **a few things on the subject.**

 **So yeah, assuming my toxic personal life allows for more of this fic anytime soon, it's gonna be a lot of fun. Until then, however…**

 **Read, Review, and Enjoy!**


	3. Nabriales and a Nightmare

**Hello Final Fantasy XIV fans, and welcome back to another chapter of revenge.** _ **Supernovas**_ **fans, sorry but we're still not there yet. It's gonna take a while, okay? I'm sure anyone reading this is eager to see Malcolm in the new** _ **Stormblood**_ **content though. So many glorious opportunities to be had, but first we gotta make it to – and through – the equally glorious ones that come with** _ **Heavensward**_ **. So for your entertainment, here's Nabriales. Obviously, he gets what's coming to him. He hits on Moenbryda. He kidnaps Minfilia after** _ **shooting**_ **Moenbryda with dark magic. He's practically** _ **feeling Minfilia up**_ **when you enter the Chrysalis. He only loses because he stops to boast about how Tupsimati's broken staff head –** _ **that Minfilia is holding in her hands!**_ **– contained obscene amounts of aether instead of porting in, curbstomping everyone, and porting out, so he's an arrogant shite. Oh, and his sideburns are horrible.** _ **However**_ **, this is not the same purely one-sided verbal and physical beatdown as the last two chapters. Though obviously we get** _ **soooo**_ **much more of that in the chapter after this one because** _ **Heavensward**_ **makes it just** _ **too**_ **easy.**

 **Oh two announcements/rationalizations. First, I may have taken a few liberties in the fight. Two MSQ solo instances now, one in** _ **Heavensward**_ **and one in** _ **Stormblood**_ **respectively, have shown NPCs using a hilariously broken form of Holmgang that can bind multiple people at once without breaking a sweat. I could buy four people at once in** _ **Heavensward**_ **because it was done by a guy actually on our Primal-slaying, Person-of-Mass-Destruction level of badass. Then** _ **Stormblood**_ **gives us these two completely normal Auri Xaela khans. One of them uses Holmgang on you and the other soon tries to nuke the whole field with Meteor. A bit overpowered but nothing we haven't dealt with before, right? Barely a minute after you've kicked their asses, the first khan uses Holmgang again to bind** _ **half a damn platoon**_ **, while the second khan nukes the other half with a** _ **second**_ **Meteor. Considering they just got beaten down by you, someone who regularly smacking down** _ **gods**_ **, it's a miracle they're still breathing, let alone using skills and spells in ways we never can. Then it hit me: we never get to use them like that in** _ **gameplay**_ **because then we'd solo all endgame content like the all-powerful badasses they make us out to be in** _ **story**_ **. They have to keep it separate so the game is actually a challenge and duties actually require 4-8 people. Here on FanFiction? No such limitations.**

 **Okay, second announcement. This was originally going to be a pure description of beating down Nabriales, but it sort of… evolved into more. With everything that happens in Before the Fall, the undiluted curbstomp in the past two chapters just didn't feel right. So it became something of a feels-train instead, with an interesting twist in how I approached it. Lots of dialogue from the actual ending of 2.55, sure, but it's mixed in with lines coming from Malcolm too. I hope you enjoy.**

 **Sorry, I lied. One final tidbit. The final part of the chapter shows Malcolm slipping out of the "King's English" speech he's been using so far and into a more "common English" with actual contractions like "can't" and "what's" and "I'll" etc. This is intentional. I call him a "Midlander mongrel" for a reason, after all, though before anyone asks, he's not at all related to Hilda the Mongrel. It's just a coincidence because the phrase "mongrel" is what hybrids are called in Eorzea.  
**

 **And now, on with the show. The feels and the build-up here for next time are** _ **real**_ **here folk. You've been warned.**

 **Summary: The Warrior of Light is all but invincible, but there are some threats cannot be conquered with mere brute force and fury. They are the threats that do not attack him, but the ones he cares about, and there is naught he can do to stop it.**

 **Spoilers: Up through Patch 2.55. Heavensward kicks off in full next chapter.**

 **Disclaimer: I own a PS4 that forced me to re-download all** _ **22 gigabytes**_ **of FFXIV because of a power surge. Other than that, I own nothing seen here.**

* * *

Nabriales and a Nightmare

 _Seventh Astral Era  
Aetherial Rift: The Chrysalis_

Minfilia struggled in vain against the dark shackles that bound her arms and held her in the air, much to the amusement of her Ascian captor. Said captor, Nabriales, reached out with a single, clawed glove and made to give the Antecedent a sinister caress along the side of her jaw. Minfilia pulled her head away sharply, but this only served to make Nabriales chuckle.

"Release me!" she yelled.

"Begging for your life, Antecedent?" he taunted.

Her face briefly held the vaguest hint of a smile before Minfilia's features hardened, and she looked right at the eyes behind the Ascian's mask and glared daggers at his skull.

"Nay, Ascian. I am begging for _yours_."

The fire in both her eyes and her voice gave Nabriales a moment's pause. Neither Elidibus nor Lahabrea had described the Scions' leader as one possessing any real degree of spine. He was immortal and certainly superior to her in every way. What then, would afford _her_ the confidence to threaten _him_?

" _ **NABRIALES!"**_

Just like that, the grin returned to Nabriales' face. Well _that_ would certainly explain it. The Antecedent's precious Warrior of Light had come to rescue her, and she actually believe he would succeed. It was almost cute. Almost.

Honestly, Nabriales didn't know what Elidibus saw in this whelp, this "Malcolm" as he called himself. He possessed the Echo, but lacked the most rudimentary understanding of its potential. And yes, he had excised Lahabrea from his mortal host and destroyed his corporeal form, but he needed the Blessing of Light to manage it, a gift he had since apparently lost.

No. Malcolm was no champion. He was a gnat to be swatted on the way to more important matters. And while Elidibus had made it clear that none were to harm the Antecedent, he said nothing about the Warrior of Light.

"Do you truly intend to fight me with that axe?" the Ascian cackled. "Your pretty friend already tried twice, and you saw how well that turned out." For a moment there was silence, and Nabriales was just starting to think that Malcolm understood the hopelessness of his situation when the Midlander mongrel spoke finally spoke.

" _Your_ friend already tried to kill _me_ ," Malcolm growled, throwing the words back in Nabriales' face. "You saw how well that turned out."

Nabriales twitched at that. He would not lie, being compared to Lahabrea touched a nerve, and for the insult alone, he retaliated with overwhelming force. The Ascian sorcerer gathered energy, called upon the Darkness, and then unleashed its destructive fury upon Malcolm. "Shrivel in apocalyptic flame!"

The End of Days obliterated all in its path, his dark magicks blazing a trail of chaos and entropy where not even ashes were left behind.

"Malcolm!" he heard the Antecedent yell behind him. Nabriales grinned wickedly at her despair, floating around to face her.

"So much for your vaunted savior," he drawled, flicking a bit of imaginary dust off of his coat. "Do you at last understand the futility of your struggles? You cannot dream of challenging our true power."

The Ascian was about to reach out for her again when a length of chain, imbued with aether and anger, flew out and wrapped around him, trapping his arms at his side.

"What?!" Nabriales shouted disbelief.

Grasping the semi-prehensile chain with both hands, Malcolm roared as he cracked it like a whip, pulling back and down. This motion dragged his foe out of the air and sent him crashing into the ground. Hard.

"Your aim is shite," the Warrior snarled.

Nabriales rose slowly to his feet, his arms still bound in that damnable chain. "Alright," he admitted, "so you do have _some_ skill." It was hardly praise. Malcolm had lost the Blessing of Light, after all, not the fundamental power of the Echo itself. While he didn't know how to use it consciously, Malcolm could still tap its powers of precognition. In short, he dodged his enemies before they even attacked. Not altogether impressive compared to what an Ascian was capable of. Attunement to the whispers of souls required no active thought after all, but the simple fact remained: Malcolm had actually _hurt_ Nabriales. It had literally been ages since anyone had done that, much less a mortal.

It would _not_ happen again. Nabriales glared at the mongrel, refusing to show this brute any outward sign of pain. "I shall not toy with you as Lahabrea did!" Levitating back off the ground, he teleported into the center of the Chrysalis and began calling on the true power he wielded as a master of the Dark Arts.

"Writhing powers of ruination! From the deepest pits of the-ack!"

The Warrior's chain made a return, snaking around the Ascian's neck and cutting his incantation short before the spell's effects could manifest. Rather than smash him into the floor, however, Malcolm reeled Nabriales in close, grabbed the man by the face and _then_ smashed him into the floor. Planting a boot on the immortal man's sternum, the Warrior of Light looked down at his prey. His exotic golden eyes were filled to the brim with hatred and just a hint of twisted amusement.

"What? You cannot truly expect me to just _stand_ _there_ and let you recite poetry that could potentially kill me upon completion?! To cast such a complex spell, you require an equally complex invocation. You may as well have _invited_ me to break you in half. He smiled maliciously. "Speaking of which…" Keeping his foot pressed on the Ascian's chest, Malcolm took his axe in both hands, raising it up before slamming it down and striking Nabriales with the pommel.

Right between the legs.

Ephemeral or eternal, crushing a man's bits had the same effect no matter who the victim was, and Malcolm actually took a moment to _laugh_ as Nabriales howled in agony. After the way this bastard had been leering at Moenbryda and Minfilia, the Midlander mongrel felt it more than a fitting punishment. "That should help you to better control your 'urges' around my friends!" He hissed. "You truly are a fool, Ascian! The Blessing of Light may have shielded the Scions' home from you, but it was not what keeps you at bay!" He stepped off of the curled up sorcerer, his rage lighting up the entire Chrysalis as his gold-yellow eyes shone bright. " _I_ am their true defense, Nabriales! _I_ protect them from any and all threats, be it Primal, Garlean, Dravanian, or Ascian! You invaded the Rising Stones, insulted and attacked our Sharlayan ally Moenbryda, and now you have kidnapped Antecedent Minfilia!" On this last accusation, he paused to look up at the woman in question, still hanging in the air by her wrists. He would see her safely back home ere long. Turning his gaze back to the Ascian, the Midlander mongrel made his intentions perfectly clear. "When I am finished, you will be _permanently_ dead and gone!"

"Such touching loyalty," Nabriales gasped out, still maintaining his air of superiority despite the literal blow Malcolm had dealt to his male pride. "But are you truly so naïve as to think it is that simple? Our goals are-"

"Irrelevant," Malcolm interrupted. "I do not fight for any god, nation, or ideal. My friends may fight for these things." He dropped into a ready stance. "I simply fight for _my friends_."

So simple a declaration, yet so incomprehensible to Nabriales. How? How was the _Warrior of Light_ so indifferent to the fate of his own star? All the knowledge collected in his immortal mind, and yet Nabriales could not unravel the mystery glaring at him now, axe in hand. Malcolm was truly a riddle. He was Hydaelyn's chosen – or at least he used to be. How one _lost_ the Blessing of Light was strange enough, but to have ever possessed it at all and _not_ subscribe to any higher power was inconceivable. While false and dim in comparison to the will of their Lord Zodiark, Nabriales had still at the very least expected Hydaelyn's champion to be a righteous crusader, seeking to root out darkness wherever it may be.

This giant mongrel in front of him was as far from that image as possible. Malcolm had no personal ambition. Instead his entire being was invested in those around him. Whatever his friends desired, so too did he. Whatever they fought, he fought. And should anything threaten them, well, the Warrior had made himself _painfully_ clear on that particular matter.

That was honestly the most insulting part. For all their power, the Ascians meant _nothing_ to this man. He didn't _care_ what they did or why they did it, just that it impacted his Scion companions. It wasn't until Nabriales was kicking down the door to the Rising Stones that Malcolm's indifference towards him was replaced by an inexhaustible fury. No talk of fate, destiny, Light, or Dark. A threat towards his friends had made itself apparent, and now the Warrior of Light would not stop until that threat was gone. Or he was.

It would be the latter, of course. Nabriales would not be caught in that chain a third time, and this farce had dragged on long enough. Floating off the ground, he drew on power few knew about and fewer still could even dare to wish for.

Malcolm was there, ready with his chain to interrupt the incantation, only to come up short due to the very nature of the spell he was trying to interrupt in the first place.

" _ **By Zodiark's name I command thee!"**_ Nabriales called out to powers beyond mortal ken, and the chain as well as the man attempting to reach him with it both immediately slowed to a crawl. _**"River of time, mire mine enemy in thy sluggish flow!"**_

"Impossible!" Minfilia gasped, unable to believe the sight even as it played out before her very eyes. "He has power over… _time itself!?_ "

The effect was instantaneous, and terror gripped Minfilia's heart like an icy fist as Malcolm, her furious champion, tenacious hero, and unyielding protector, was brought to his knees for the first time since she'd met him. He struggled of course. He _always_ struggled for her and the others, whatever it took to keep them safe. Just like when he rescued her from Castrum Centri, he fought on with an almost _tangible_ wrath, and for a moment it appeared to be working. His berserker rage, wreathing him in a brilliant aura of anger, seemed to grant Malcolm the strength to stand up again, and with a guttural scream of defiance, he forced himself to keep going, to keep fighting.

It was all for naught, however, when Nabriales upped the ante again and dragged Malcolm into a vortex of black and red energies, laughing in cruel delight at his imminent victory.

"You shall wither in the merciless embrace of eternity!" the Ascian bellowed. He wasn't content with merely crushing the Warrior of Light inside a temporal gaol though. No, he planned to be thorough in his enemy's destruction. And so, with another string of incantations, Nabriales called down not just one, but a _barrage_ of Meteors to wipe the from the imprisoned Malcolm off the face of this and every other star.

And like so many times before, Minfilia was helpless to do more than watch and wait. It seemed that was all she had ever done lately for the Scions. Watch, wait, and worry. Minfilia was no fighter. Her dear friend Thancred had always been there to keep her safe, and ever since he joined their number, Malcolm made it his personal mission to keep them _all_ safe.

It was always the same routine, going all the way back to that first encounter with Ifrit. A threat would rise, and as Malcolm left to confront it, Minfilia would bid him farewell at the Solar door and beg him to be careful, knowing full well that each goodbye could potentially be the last. Then she would busy herself with the thousand-and-one other tasks that piled higher every day just to keep the anxiety off her mind. To keep from wondering if he was dead at the hands of a newly summoned Primal, or shot by Garleans, attacked by Ascians, or any number of fears for his safety. She knew how strong he was, and yet every time she worried all the same.

And every time, against all odds, Malcolm would come back alive and well, proving her worries had been for naught.

Again, and again, and again the pattern would repeat. She never once took it for granted, and while she always received the news of his victory with joy, it was his survival, his _return_ that truly made her happy. Malcolm cared so much for their lives, their safety, but he placed no value on his own. Alphinaud didn't quite understand that value yet. He was a bright and gifted boy, but still just a _boy_ , too young to realize how often he took the Warrior of Light for granted, forgetting that there was a person behind that seemingly invincible title.

And now it seemed both the person and the title had been crushed beneath the weight of Ascian sorcery. The thought that this time really _was_ the last almost brought her to tears, and Nabriales was savoring every last onze of her suffering.

"I can scarcely wait to tell Lahabrea about this," he chuckled before turning back to Minfilia. "And as for _you_." Even hidden behind a mask, she could feel the Ascian's eyes rake over her, making her skin crawl. "What was that earlier about begging for _my_ life?" He raised a hand to her once more…

 _ **THUMP-THUMP**_

Nabriales paused, frowning. Surely that sound wasn't…

 _ **THUMP-THUMP**_

No. It _couldn't_ be…

 _ **THUMP-THUMP**_

It simply wasn't possible! _Nothing_ could have survived that Meteor barrage!

So why in the name of Zodiark was there a hairline aetherial tear forming in the Chrysalis?! And what was causing it to grow wider by the second?!

 _ **THOOOOOOM**_

There was no mistaking that sound. All Ascians knew it well, though it had been a long time since Nabriales himself had heard it in person. It was, quite simply, the Echo. Rather it was the vibrations caused by the Echo as its wielder rejected death itself through naught but sheer force of will.

It was a sound quickly drowned out by a furious war cry as the Warrior of Light smashed his way through the aetherial tear like a mere glass window. Blinding light poured out of the tear behind him, shining all across the Chrysalis before the dimensional fabrics eventually sewed themselves shut once more.

"Is that all you've got?!" Malcolm challenged as if he was completely unfazed by everything Nabriales had just thrown at him. Of course he wasn't _completely_ unfazed, not after a hundred-tonze boulder had been dropped on his (admittedly thick) skull. He refuse to let his enemy see any such weakness, but _Seven Hells_ , that one hurt! Escaping wasn't an altogether pleasant experience either. Powering through the walls of a pocket dimension with half a dozen Meteors and the weight of time itself all trying to grind his bones to dust certainly forced him to break past his body's natural limits. It was pure luck that that same distortion of time that ground Malcolm down within the temporal gaol had also prolonged his berserker fury. He was breathing hard, he was favoring his left leg, and his arms were going numb from cleaving a hole through spaces that already shouldn't exist, but he still wouldn't go down. He _never_ went down, and whether by sheer rage or the power of the Echo or some combination thereof, he _refused_ to die.

"Thank Hydaelyn you're alive!" Minfilia exclaimed as relief flooded her veins. For a moment, she truly believed this Ascian had killed Malcolm, but just like always, he'd come back alive. Bloodied and bruised obviously, but alive, just as angry and unbroken as when he'd first entered this realm to save her.

Nabriales was barely able to do more than float above the ground in total incredulity. As Malcolm began advancing on him, the Ascian finally spoke up, though his voice lacked much of its former arrogance. "But… you are shorn of Her blessing!" By this point he was gnashing his teeth at this pathetic mortal's refusal to die. "How do you yet resist me?!"

"Easily," Malcolm grunted, dropping the head of his axe to the ground and preparing to charge. "Let me show you…"

* * *

 _Mor Dhona: Revenant's Toll  
Rising Stones: Solar_

The fight didn't last long after that point. Nabriales was too shocked – possibly even _scared_ – by his enemy's continued survival to offer more resistance than a few clumsy Sparks and Quakes before Malcolm separated the Ascian's head from his shoulders.

After that it was a simple matter of bringing Minfilia safely back home. Opening his eyes, Malcolm saw that both he was once again standing where he'd been before entering the dark portal. Moenbryda was the same, kneeling on the floor to his left and clutching the wound she received from Nabriales before he'd first taken the Antecedent. Speaking of Minfilia, she was _not_ where she had been before, standing instead a few fulms to the side of a dead and hoodless Ascian. The corpse of Nabriales obviously, lying on the ground where the portal had formed when he kidnapped Minfilia and the Tupsimati she clutched tightly in her hands, even now.

"You're safe," Moenbryda gasped out. "Thank the Twelve."

The happy feeling of victory was short-lived, for the words had barely escaped her mouth before tendrils of writhing darkness began to flow over and around Nabriales' fallen form. Pitch black aether left the body and coalesced above it. To the shock and horror of everyone present, Nabriales emerged from this aether anew. His head was attached, his mask was in place, his robe was pristine. _Nothing_ to show he'd just recently been _smashed in the balls and murdered_ by the Warrior of Light.

" _ **You may have bested me this day…"**_ he taunted the Midlander Mongrel in that odd Ascian tongue that only the Echo let him understand. _**"But what of the next? What of all the days to come?!"**_ With a sweep of his arms, the corpse – _his_ corpse – beneath his live and levitating form was dispersed into nothing. _**"Remember: Light no longer holds sway here. I may return whensoever I wish. Again, and again, and again. Eventually, you will falter and the staff will be mine. Until next time, Scions."**_

"Was I not clear the _first_ time?" Malcolm asked as he strode up to the man he'd just finished killing. His voice was quiet in its fury, like the calm before a massive storm. "This place was never protected by Light. It is protected, and will always be protected, _**by me!**_ "

These last two words were given painful emphasis as Malcolm grabbed Nabriales by the neck and smashed him through the Antecedent's desk. He would apologize to her for the damage later. First he was going to see this immortal fool _break_!

"If you plan to come back whenever I kill you," the Midlander mongrel growled as he placed his boot on the Ascian's chest once more, "then the answer is obvious. I will just _not_ kill you."

Whatever haughty reply he'd had on his tongue died when Nabriales heard that. _**"What?"**_

"It is unorthodox, to be sure," Malcolm continued, pressing down a bit harder. "I would have to put significant effort into restraining myself lest I _accidentally_ murder you and thus be forced to start all over again." He shot the Ascian a malevolent grin. "But it could work. I could break your spine _just_ right," again he pressed harder, "snap each of your limbs," harder still, "and of course remove your tongue to prevent you from reciting any more incantations, really to prevent you from speaking at all if I were honest. The only trouble then would be keeping you alive after that. Do you require sustenance when you lack a mortal host, Ascian?"

Nabriales was paler than a ghost by this point. This man – nay, this _monster_ – was serious! He was fully intending to cripple and dismember him just enough to render him harmless without actually killing him. He even was thinking of possible ways to prevent Nabriales from reconstituting on his own, such as _ripping out his tongue_ to silence the vast majority of his magicks.

" _ **Y-you are insane!"**_ the Ascian stammered. _**"As if such crude tactics were enough to subdue me!"**_ Sweet Zodiark beyond, he hoped to never find out. _**"Even should you succeed, you must know it would be temporary at best! Eternity cannot be contained!"**_

"Can't it?" Malcolm asked, amusement briefly flashing through his unbridled rage ever-so-briefly as he looked back at Minfilia and Moenbryda. Then he turned to glare at the Ascian once more. "Let's put that to the test, shall we?"

Due to his large and imposing figure, standing at almost six and a half fulms, Malcolm had been mistaken for a really skinny Roegadyn on more than one occasion when he first started out. This, combined with his _extremely_ aggressive ground state of being, naturally drew attention towards the Midlander mongrel. He made no effort to avoid it in battle. Quite the opposite, in fact, he did everything to _keep_ that attention. His enemies could either run and never look back, or attack and die. They made the wrong choice every time.

Here with Nabriales, it had been slightly different. He hadn't the faintest idea if breaking every bone in the Ascian's body would eliminate him as a threat without killing him, but Malcolm was more than happy to try if necessary. His words though, however true the sentiment behind them, were merely to serve as a distraction while Moenbryda and Minfilia readied the white auracite crystal to trap Nabriales and hopefully destroy him.

It was karmic irony that he was dragged inside a prison that would kill him after he'd attempted to do the same to Malcolm. They couldn't celebrate yet, however. Not until Nabriales' essence within the auracite crystal was annihilated.

He had tried. Oh, how he'd tried. But even Tupsimati wasn't enough on its own. They needed but a little more aether to finish it, and it was just their rotten luck that there was no more to be had.

Until Moenbryda gave them more…

* * *

 _Mor Dhona: Rathefrost  
Mark of the Scholar: In Memory of Moenbryda_

There was no body to bury. Their Sharlayan friend had literally sacrificed her very essence to give Malcolm that last burst of aether he needed to kill Nabriales – permanently this time.

He did not laugh as he had after killing Livia sas Junius. How could he, when the "victory" felt so hollow and left a bitter taste of ash in his mouth? The Scions, loyal to the last, turned to their Antecedent for strength in this hour of mourning. And Minfilia, in turn, drew strength from Malcolm, her unwavering and unflinching Warrior of Light.

Never before had he despised the title more than he did in that particular moment.

" _ **Life for death,"**_ a voice far too deep for such a small dragon resonated from Malcolm's left. _**"A fair exchange. Other bargains will be struck."**_

There was no thought behind what followed. No deliberation of right or wrong, smart or foolish. Were Alphinaud present, the boy would likely chastise Malcolm for jeopardizing their tentative progress with the Holy See of Ishgard. He was, after all, _indelibly bound to the Father of Dragons_. It was, in all likelihood, the single greatest example of heresy in the thousand-year history of the Dragonsong War.

And Malcolm didn't give a shite about any of that as his left hand whipped out and snatched Midgardsormr's tiny form out of the air. The legendary King of Kings, whose massive serpentine body had once dwarfed the flagship of the Garlean Empire, now fit entirely inside the Warrior's fist, with only his head sticking out to glare (rather impressively for his size) at Malcolm.

" _ **Release me, mortal!"**_

"The _Hells_ I will!" Malcolm snapped quietly, gripping the all-powerful wyrmling even tighter. "You and I are going to have _words_." As none save Malcolm could actually see or hear Midgardsormr, he gave a nod to Minfilia before taking his leave. It would not do for the Warrior of Light to rave and rant at the empty air for all the Scions to see. This gathering was about Moenbryda, after all, not him.

When Malcolm felt he'd gone a satisfactory distance away from his friends, he held the small dragon up in front of his eyes and snarled.

" _ **Heh heh heh! Always so quick to anger."**_

"You're damned right I am!" Malcolm seethed. "You stripped the Blessing of Light from _me_! You took its protection, from _me_! You invoked a covenant with Hydaelyn, to test _my_ worth! So why in all Seven bloody Hells are _they_ suddenly in danger?!"

" _ **Thy mistress's blessing didst serve as their shield as much as thine own,"**_ the Guardian of Silvertear Falls replied evenly.

" _Of course_ you knew, but did you consider telling me? _No_! Instead, I had to learn that the Rising Stones could be attacked by Ascians… from an _Ascian_! The selfsame Ascian who, not seconds later, _attacked the Rising Stones_! If you fail to see the sick irony in this shite, then you are no King of Kings, but a winged jester!"

Midgardsormr's eyes narrowed as he thundered his rebuttal. _ **"Art thou done laying blame for thy failure at the feet of ignorance? It shall avail thee naught! No more shall the heavens deliver thee and thine allies unto safety. If thou wouldst protect others from sharing this Sharlayan mortal's fate, do so by thine own strength!"**_

It was painful to hear, but Malcolm knew the Father of Dragons spoke the truth. There were no guarantees. His allies were only as safe as _he_ could make them now. No divine intervention would save them any more than it would save him. Midgardsormr had made sure of that. And while the Wyrm Lord had _blatantly_ neglected to mention the risk losing the Blessing would pose to his friends, that was naturally the whole point. _Nothing_ given, _everything_ earned. Through blood, sweat, and tears, all of which had been shed this day and would certainly be shed in the days to come, Malcolm would be weighed and measured before the Mothercrystal and the Father of the First Brood both.

In short, the undersized Dravanian overlord wanted him to _fight_ and _pay_ for every ilm going forward, and the price wouldn't always be one Malcolm could easily pay…

With a sigh, the Warrior of Light released the small Dravanian progenitor. "Very well. If my strength is all they have, then I will see that it is all they should ever _need_."

" _ **Such bold words. Show me thy conviction."**_

* * *

 _From Thanalan to Coerthas  
The Fall of the Scions_

" _I hereby accuse you of regicide!"_

" _What a pity… Who'd have thought your tale would end like this?"_

" _I daresay Her Grace was grateful that someone thought to cut her strings."_

" _You would mock her? THEN MOCK HER FROM HELL!"_

" _Have you lost your mind, General?!"_

" _I never doubted you. Not for a moment. But there is more to this than I yet understand."_

" _What in the-? Brass Blades_ _ **and**_ _Crystal Braves?! You traitorous whoresons! I'll kill you all! I swear to the Twelve, and every other god what can hear me!_ _ **I**_ _!_ _ **Will**_ _!_ _ **KILL YOU!**_ _"_

" _No Malcolm! Even you cannot wage war against all of Ul'dah! We must escape while we still have a chance!"_

" _The rest of you go on ahead. I'll handle this lot!"_

" _Hn… I suppose I shall just have to join you."_

" _Yda! Papalymo! No!"_

" _Let them have it Yda!"_

" _I was hoping you'd say that!"_

" _This can't be happening…"_

" _You two go on ahead. Thancred and I will deal with this."_

" _Fear not, Antecedent. You haven't seen the last of these fair features."_

" _Dammit Y'shtola, you too? Thancred, get your arse back here!"_

" _Forgive me, Mhitra…"_

" _Farewell, Minfilia…"_

" _No!_ _ **No! NO!**_ _"_

" _Hydaelyn… She speaks to me. No! I must remain behind… but you cannot stay with me."_

" _Not a chance in the Eighth Hell, Minfilia! I'm not letting you out of my sight! Not this time!"_

" _Please, you must go on! You are the Warrior of Light! You are_ _ **hope**_ _– for the Scions and for all the realm! As long as your flame continues to burn, the light of the dawn may ever be relit! You must escape, and save Eorzea from those who would plunge it into darkness!"_

" _What's the bloody point of saving Eorzea if I must lose all my friends?!"_

" _Pray go now, Malcolm… May you ever walk in the light of the Crystal."_

" _I am glad to see you safe, my friend! What of the others?"_

" _I failed them, Alphinaud… Gods take me, I failed_ _ **everyone**_ _!"_

" _Cid? What are you doing here?"_

" _Pulling you out of the fire, as usual!"_

" _Coerthas. Ishgard will not suffer the intrusion of foreign forces in their territory."_

" _Malcolm, what of your 'covenant' with Midgardsormr? Should anyone here learn the truth, they would execute you for heresy. Is it truly wise seeking asylum here?"_

" _I trust Lord Haurchefant. He would never do that."_

" _But do not despair! You are not without allies. You are more than welcome to shelter here for as long as you wish. Pray think of it as a new headquarters of sorts – the 'Falling Snows' or some such! All frivolity aside, any who come here in search of you will receive no aid from House Fortemps. For once, the Ishgardian reputation for inhospitality shall work in our favor. Agents of Ul'dah will find their every inquiry dismissed, and their every request for entry rebuffed, until such a time as their masters have acknowledged your innocence. You once fought to preserve the honor of my dear friend – 'tis a blessing that I may now repay the debt in kind."_

" _I cannot thank you enough_ _, my friend."_

 _"Alphinaud?! Malcolm?! Is it really you?"_

" _Tataru! Thank the Twelve you're alive!"_

" _Rest assured the people of Doma yet stand with you."_

 _"And we are honored to have you with us,_ _Lady Yugiri."_

" _I believed myself the only one who truly understood Eorzea's woes. And look what that arrogance has wrought."_

" _Plenty of blame to go around_ _ **Commander**_ _ **Leveilleur**_ _. Enough for every Crystal Brave what sold us out,_ _ **especially**_ _Ilberd. But that can wait, for a time anyway. First I want you to listen and listen well: You are_ _ **not**_ _your grandfather, Alphinaud, and_ _ **nobody**_ _expects you to be. Good gods lad, what sixteen-year-old tries to establish and run his own Grand Company?!"_

" _I am not a naïve child, Malcolm!"_

" _But you_ _ **are**_ _naïve. Smart, brilliant even, but naïve. Welcome to the real world, Alphinaud. It is cold and unforgiving as the snow outside this Intercessory. It will take, and take, and take until you have nothing left to give, and then it will take some more. It is selfish, petty, and filled with a special kind of darkness that would not vanish even if I killed every last Ascian and their god Zodiark here and now. There is no leaving it once you enter. After all you have seen today, if it is still a world you wish to save, then stand_ _ **with**_ _me rather than_ _ **behind**_ _me, and let us save it!"_

* * *

 _Coerthas Central Highlands  
Gates of Judgment_

Malcolm's golden eyes snapped open to reveal the Gates of Judgment towering before him. The horrid memories of that day had snuck up on him once more, catching him off-guard. The betrayal, the escape, the aftermath. A rush of pain and helplessness, every single damn time he closed his eyes, let alone slept, he saw the nightmare all over again. It lit a burning rage in him so hot he couldn't even feel the cold that would have frozen any normal man to the bone.

Their asylum would come soon enough. Of this he had no doubt. Lord Haurchefant was a man of his word, and if he said House Fortemps would take them in, Malcolm had no doubt that is exactly what would happen. It was only a matter of time…

" _ **Heh heh heh. Thou thinkest sanctuary lieth beyond?"**_

The Warrior of Light, now also known as Eorzea's Most Wanted, turned to glare at the wyrm waxing poetic at his side.

" _ **Delusion. Despair. Death. Thou shalt find naught else here."**_

Malcolm's glare softened into a vicious smirk. He looked almost… _excited_. Angry, to be sure, but excited.

"Then I am doubtless in the right place."

And with that, his wrathful gaze turned _Heavensward_.

* * *

 **Okay, seriously, did anyone else have that kind of reaction to Midgardsormr's words at the end of Patch 2.55? The tiny god-dragon is laughing and telling you how much of a shitstorm is waiting in Ishgard, and some crazy part of you is thinking, "That sounds like a good time."**

 **Then you get there, and** _ **that scene**_ **happens and the good time stops for a while… Yeah… I won't make it quite** _ **that**_ **far in the next chapter, but I'm definitely going to milk the** _ **Heavensward**_ **expansion for all it's worth. So many opportunities, and then** _ **Stormblood**_ **expansion gave me a few more** _ **huge**_ **ones.**

 **I'm not gonna lie, this may be just a side project, but writing it is helping me a lot. I still honestly don't know when I'll go back to my main** _ **Supernovas**_ **work, but for now I intend to focus on this fic. Especially now that I'm getting to the really good stuff. Until next time though, I would ask that you all…**

 **Read, Review, and Enjoy!**


	4. Land of Fury, Home of Braves

**To those of you still waiting for more** _ **Supernovas**_ **, the story isn't dead, I promise. It's just hibernating to recover from the unfiltered bullshit I was put through at the start of Summer. It's coming back eventually though, I promise.**

 **To those of you here for this story, I've got good news and bad news, and which is which depends entirely on your interpretation. The "bad" news is that this chapter is about as tame as the last one, heavy on emotion and low on ass-kicking. The "good" news is that pretty much every chapter I've got planned after this one is composed of at least 90% fire, brimstone, and curbstomp. It may not always be total curbstomp, since for all the WoL's god-killing prowess some enemies actually pose a threat to him, but you get the idea. Feels this time, fun next time and most times after that as well.**

 **On a final note, I wrote this title back when I thought I'd get this done on Independence Day weekend. The pun is a bit more obvious if you know the last lines of America's National Anthem.**

 **And so, with a full confession that I own nothing here, I bring you:**

* * *

Land of Fury, Home of Braves

 _Coerthas Western Highlands: Camp Riversmeet  
Gorgagne Mills_

A simple-minded and dangerous fool. That had been Ysayle's first impression of the Warrior of Light. He was no more complicated than an ox, plodding along at the command of his masters for reasons beyond his ken and concern. They paid him to slay Primals, and he did not discriminate. Not even for a fellow Echo _-_ blessed like herself, trying to serve a more noble goal with a Primal's power, as Saint Shiva reborn no less!

In this way, the man known as Malcolm was no better than Ishgard. Just as they would kill her for being a heretic so too would the Warrior of Light kill her for summoning a primal unto herself.

(He almost _did_ kill her, she has to remind herself. Seven Hells, he'd beaten her within an ilm of her life, not even stopping when Shiva's grace had abandoned her.)

So yes, fool he may be, the man was unspeakably dangerous. In a way, however, she was glad for his strength. Otherwise that attack on the Steps of Faith that had spiraled beyond her control could have been _much_ worse. That one angry man with an axe and his four adventurer friends could so utterly _shatter_ the Horde and send them flying off with their tails between their legs… it made Ysayle feel lucky to have escaped his wrath alive.

Weeks, mayhap even months later (time had a way of blending together out in the blizzards of the Highlands), as she watched him _effortlessly_ _butcher_ her comrades, her "heretic followers" as the Holy See's faithful would call them, Iceheart's opinion remained largely unchanged. He was still a fool, and he still opposed her cause simply because others told him to. There was, however, one highly noticeable difference in how she saw the Warrior of Light now.

Malcolm wasn't "just" as bad as Ishgard. He was _worse_. Far worse. That raw, unbridled _fury_ she'd painfully experienced firsthand was… well, it certainly wasn't "gone" by any means, but there was something… off about the Midlander mongrel's unstoppable rage. It was… what? Ysayle frowned as she searched for the right words. Changed? Altered? Deepened?

Then she saw it. Or rather she _saw him_ , as her Echo briefly touched Malcolm's very soul. Gods, it was dark inside, so _very_ dark. Now she understood, and the revelation _terrified_ her. His rage was _exactly_ the same as always; an inferno burning just beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed. It was his _mind_ that was different now, barely able to keep that rage from swallowing the Warrior of Light entirely. Ysayle knew not how or why, but the threads of Malcolm's sanity were beginning to… to _fray_.

* * *

After seeing Malcolm slaughter ever other heretic in the room with his bare hands, the last one started transforming out of sheer desperation. He probably didn't even know he was changing until it was over and he lunged at his would-be executioner with malformed half-Dravanian claws.

Anyone else would have leapt away, the drive for self-preservation overriding all else as a ten-fulm-tall mixture of wyrm and man tried to gore them on its talons. Malcolm did exactly the opposite. He ducked under the mutated heretic's limb, getting in _closer_ as he drew the greatsword he'd taken to carrying on his back before decapitating the giant freak with a single, practiced stroke.

As the body fell without its head, the Warrior of Light remained motionless before eventually whipping the blood off his greatsword and returning it to its sheath. Steam rose from heretic corpses littering the room even as their gore froze in the Calamity-induced cold of Coerthas. "What a waste of time," he muttered to no one in particular. "Did Lord Artoirel actually believe _this_ would be too much for me to handle?"

He was just about to turn around and walk out when, as if Oschon had come and personally dropped Malcolm a late nameday gift, a familiar woman sneered at him in a familiar voice.

"Looking for me, I presume." Iceheart didn't even bother phrasing it as a question, and as usual she was a malm off target. Malcolm was about to tell the Primal-empowered heretic leader that he didn't even know she was _here_ until now, but then he recalled their last conversation.

"' _Seek the Keeper of the Lake. See with eyes unclouded.' Wasn't that what said, Malcolm?"_

Indeed, those had been her words. Eventually, he'd acted upon them. He sought out the Keeper of the Lake, the mighty Midgardsormr himself. Oh and Malcolm sure as bloody Hells found him too! But he did not "see with eyes unclouded" like Iceheart claimed. Not even close. The damned wyrm lord had _stripped him of the Blessing of Light_ instead! This loss was compounded when an Ascian tried to take advantage of the situation, and even though Malcolm came out on top as usual, he'd been forced to pay an unacceptable price for victory that day.

" _And while Moenbryda was dying, Princess Primal here was removing the Holy See's wards and giving the Horde free run of the place, just like she gave Nabriales free run of the Rising Stones, albeit indirectly in the latter case. Iceheart is the_ _ **real**_ _reason we're in this mess when you stop and think about it, eh?"_

Indeed. He agreed with Fray, as he did on many things. (And while the personification of his ruthless pragmatism was not allowed to "take the reins" as he'd attempted in Whitebrim, Malcolm was more than content to let him ride along as a _passenger._ )

Now after all the trouble, the pain, and the godsforsaken suffering Iceheart had caused him, direct and indirect, here she was at last, standing less than ten yalms in front of him. Malcolm didn't even try to hide the bloodthirsty grin working its way onto his face. "I am going to _deeply_ enjoy this!" He reached for his blade, then paused and reconsidered before grinning wider as he cracked his knuckles. "No hoard of crystals this time, witch. That means no pulling a Primal out of your arse. Let's find out if your heart is _really_ made of ice."

If Midgardsormr hadn't shown up at that exact moment with more of his vague and guttural rhetoric, things would have gotten _ugly_. They almost got ugly even with the King of Kings present. Malcolm's rage never once faltered as he listened to Ysayle's life story. How she'd nearly frozen to death like so many other children when the Calamity struck, how she'd been saved by Hraesvelgr himself, and how she'd "seen the truth" through the great wyrm's eyes.

"I was chosen," Ysayle ranted, "to deliver this revelation to the people – to bring dragon and man together, as they once were, and should ever be!"

"You _dare_ speak to me about being chosen?" Malcolm roared. "Were you _chosen_ by Hydaelyn to become a false god that slowly kills her with its existence alone? Were you _chosen_ to tear down the wards protecting Ishgard and let the Horde unleash an Eighth bloody Hell on every man, woman, and child in Foundation? And you would call _me_ a blind fool?!"

Malcolm saw Ysayle's conviction falter, her voice shaking in the aftermath of his accusations. She didn't deny her crimes, but oddly enough, she didn't condone what had happened either. "It wasn't supposed to be like that! You have to believe me! It was… beyond my control…" She looked away in shame. "Children taught to fear the skies, who saw their loved ones slaughtered…" she turned to Midgardsormr in pleading confusion. "Yet the Dravanians – though they know where the fault truly lies – fell upon them with such _fury_ …"

The Father of the First Brood only scoffed. _**"Men die, and their children forget. But we are everlasting. To us, then is as now."**_ His voice was chiding, arrogant, as if it was painful to even try explaining the concept of timelessness to mortals. _**"Thou canst not comprehend the violation. The outrage. The fury."**_

"I 'comprehend' just fine," Malcolm spat, his blatant hostility and disrespect toward the Wyrm Lord scaring Ysayle all over again. "You think your vaunted Dravanian immortality makes your anger _special_ and _justified_ somehow, like a man cannot feel that same rage in his vastly shorter time upon this star. You are wrong. I know _exactly_ what kind of fury your children feel, Midgardsormr. I know because I have felt it more times than even _you_ can imagine!"

Malcolm held his arms out wide, a dare for any to challenge him as he continued. "I felt it for Livia sas Junius, who raided my first real home and slaughtered those I had begun to call family! I felt it for every Garlean that was with her that day, and after killing Livia herself, I hunted them down to a man! They screamed, they ran, they fought back, and in the end they died all the same. If this sounds familiar, know that I am _far_ from done! Whatever you _think_ you know of 'violation,' it pales in comparison to the sight of a cackling devil wear a dear friend's body and mind as if it were a mere suit of _clothes!_ Lahabrea _possessed_ my friend, and I felt the _depth_ of that corruption when I was forced to excise his rot from Thancred's soul! There are… truly no words." The Warrior of Light glared at Ysayle before turning back to look at Midgardsormr. "The outrage at heretics attacking soldiers under the command of my closest friend, Lord Haurchefant, followed by the utter fury at the thought of _Lady Iceheart_ summoning a Primal almost in his backyard! Never mind the torment I will _never_ forget until I die: the sight of an Eorzean _transforming into a Primal!_ It is truly a miracle Garlemald has not already sent every last legion under their command to the West and crushed us into dust. We are hardly people to them as it is. If the truth came to light, they would see us as naught but ticking time bombs. I need not explain any fury beyond that, _Keeper of the Lake_ , for the next violation was _yours_ , Midgardsormr, as you well know, when you ravaged every fiber of my being and ripped the Blessing of Light out of my very soul! Through some ill-defined 'covenant' you have become bound your existence to mine, the weight of your inescapable presence denying me peace within my own mind!" Ysayle gasped at this revelation but Malcolm paid her no mind. "Then Nabriales attacked, and because of _you_ , I could not stop _him_! Then I go, still tired and in mourning, to protect the Gates of Judgment because your wayward children, robbed of vengeance against the fathers, are just as content to slaughter the children of Ishgard for said fathers' sins, innocence and ignorance to any crime be damned! And _still_ it does not end, for I am then forced to run, alone and ashamed, as what remained of that first real family is taken away one by one, possibly forever! Never forget that I, too, was betrayed by mortals. Teledji and Lolorito framed me for _regicide_ , yet I do not wish every Lalafell dead for the schemes of two." He was breathing hard now, dark hatred clawing and cloying like a red smoke around his body.

"So _yes_ , I can easily _comprehend_ the fury you dragons believe so exclusive to your kind. I may not live forever, but until either death or vengeance grant me peace, a hatred deeper than you or any of your children could _possibly_ know will burn as a fire without end inside my soul!"

For a moment, all was silent, Malcolm's words still resonating off the walls even after he'd finished. And Midgardsormr, for all the antagonism he visited upon this peculiar mortal, was forced to admit – quietly of course – that mayhap his children's rage was not so far beyond mortal ken after all.

Or at least, not _all_ mortals.

For her part, Ysayle seemed conflicted, yet she made an ominous vow regardless.

"I will make this right."

Malcolm scoffed as Midgardsormr vanished into the air once more. "Prove it. Show me how far _you_ would go for the oaths you swear and the codes you keep." The Midlander mongrel turned and slowly walked out the way he came in. "Do not make me regret sparing you for the second time now."

It was a whim more than anything. He wanted to see if she could do it, of course, but more than that, he wanted Ysayle to wake up and see how her moral high ground was a farce. She had blood on her hands, same as Malcolm, except she refused to take the blame. Iceheart _said_ what she had done was unforgivable, but how could she understand when she was never the one to pay the price for her actions? Ysayle summoned Shiva unto herself, gaining a Primal's strength as her own while draining life from the land. Her role in the Dravanian assault on Foundation was possibly even worse because, no matter how guilty she felt about removing the wards, the fact remained that Lady Iceheart was _alive_ and the Horde's countless victims were _dead_!

Whether she opened her eyes to the truth or not, Malcolm would leave the matter for another day. For now his business was concluded, and he couldn't wait to see the look on Lord Artoirel's face when the elder Fortemps son discovered his "errand boy" wasn't dead.

* * *

 _Sea of Clouds: Vundu Ok' Bendu_

"Cid, whale…"

"I know…"

"Cid! _Whale_!"

"I _know_ , Malcolm!" Cid Garlond, the chief of Garlond Ironworks, yelled over his shoulder as he just _barely_ navigated the _Enterprise_ around the gaping maw of Bismarck, Lord of the Mists.

Only after they were safely beyond the reach of the Vundu and their Primal – because _of course_ the local beast tribes had summoned a Primal he'd inevitably have to kill! – did Malcolm allow himself to relax. Not just relax, the Warrior of Light turned to Haurchefant and actually _laughed_.

For it was with his truest friends, of which he had so very few, that Malcolm was a person first and the Warrior of Light second, rather than the other way around.

"Due respect, Haurchefant," Malcolm chuckled, "sometimes I think you may be crazier than I am!"

Lord Haurchefant Greystone, Commander of Camp Dragonhead merely laughed as he feigned perfect ignorance and innocence. "Whatever do you mean, my friend? I am the picture of sanity!"

Letting the blatant falsehood slide (this time), Malcolm slung an arm over the silver-haired lord's shoulder and grinned, pointing back in the direction they'd just come from. "You just dove off the side of a mountain – a _floating mountain_ I'd like to add, swarming with angry Vundu – onto a _moving_ airship! Tell me, how am I meant to top that? Go back and kill the whale with my bare hands?"

Haurchefant pretended to consider the idea. "Would I actually get to _see_ you kill it this time, or will my own knights restrain me again while you have all the fun?"

The two best friends, nay, the two _brothers_ , continued this same easy laughter together all the way back to Camp Cloudtop. As he piloted the airship, Cid was quite sure that Haurchefant was on an incredibly short list of people capable of bringing a smile to Malcolm's face.

" _Hells,"_ the former Imperial thought to himself. _"Save for the Scions and possibly myself, Lord Haurchefant may_ _ **be**_ _the list…"_

* * *

 _The Holy See of Ishgard: The Pillars  
The Supreme Sacred Tribunal of Halonic Inquisitory Doctrine_

By the time the trial had begun, a sizeable crowd had amassed. Highborn, come to witness the scandal, the wards of House Fortemps charged with heresy by knights of the Heavens' Ward, whose word was as canon law. Lowborn, come to support Tataru, their charming new Lalafellin friend from the Forgotten Knight, now a victim of some noble's nonsense.

Lord Haurchefant, bastard son of the Count standing by his side, was well acquainted with the games the High Houses liked to play. There was a time he'd served as ammunition against his father, though certainly never to this extreme a degree. This was low, even for House Dzemael.

" _Oh, if they only knew,"_ Haurchefant thought to himself, trying very hard not to smirk just yet. After all, why ruin the surprise? Better to let the tension build. Ser Grinnaux wouldn't know what hit him until he was lying face down in his own blood. Malcolm would make sure of that.

"We are gathered here today, under the watchful gaze of the Fury," the High Adjudicator announced to the crowd, "to ascertain the guilt of two souls in a trial by combat! Petitioners, step forward!"

Ser Grinnaux did as the High Adjudicator requested, stepping forward alongside another knight of the Heavens' Ward: Ser Paulecrain.

A former knight of House Fortemps himself and a veritable artist with a lance, Paulecrain's "incendiary personality" had still quickly led to his expulsion. Both his skill and his aforementioned personality led to him being taken in by House Dzemael, who viewed him as a great asset due to his lack of scruples and willingness to get his hands dirty. They even gave him a title: Ser Paulecrain Coldfire. He had come far from his days of poverty, now an employee and close friend to Ser Grinnaux the Bull, his brother knight of the Heavens' Ward.

It had been rewarding enough to see Grinnaux make Count Edmont de Fortemps squirm by accusing his House's new wards of consorting with heretics. Grinnaux was simple and straightforward, but this only heightened his effectiveness as a vicious brute. Thus while the politics behind the false charges escaped him, he gladly did it for the sake of hitting Dzemael's rival House. Paulecrain saw the game being played though, and the chance to take a literal stab at House Fortemps' wards had him almost giddy with anticipation.

"Ser Grinnaux," the High Adjudicator requested in a loud and impassive voice, "for the benefit of all here present, I would ask you to repeat the charges which you have leveled against this man and this woman."

The knight in question grinned. It was not a pleasant expression, full of malice where a grin _should_ be full of warmth. "I, Ser Grinnaux de Dzemael, brother of the Heavens' Ward, did bear witness to these two foreigners consorting with heretics!"

The Tribunal instantly came alive with the buzz of whispering Highborn, all acting shocked and scandalized to hear Ser Grinnaux's claims. "Such scandal!" they would say, as if _this exact_ _gossip_ hadn't spread like wildfire through the entire Pillars less than half a bell after the arrests took place. It was "most assuredly" the first any of the nobles had heard of it. All for show, of course. Hushed voices flew like arrows, well aimed and with purpose. They sought to gain from this spectacle at what they believed would be the inevitable expense of Fortemps. All it took was a few of the right words in the right ears at the right time.

Yeah. They weren't fooling anyone, and certainly not the Lowborn who could only roll their eyes and wish to gods that Tataru didn't have to pay the price for the blue bloods' little pissing contests.

The High Adjudicator gestured for silence before turning to Alphinaud and Tataru. "Let the accused step forward!" When they had done so, he continued. "Alphinaud Leveilleur, Tataru Taru – you have heard the charges leveled against you. Will you take up arms to refute Ser Grinnaux's claim and thereby prove your innocence in the eyes of gods and men?"

What happened in Ul'dah still weighed heavily on Alphinaud's mind, and it likely always would, but thanks to the support of his remaining friends and allies, especially the Warrior of Light, it had not broken him. His former confidence had all but completely returned, though it was now tempered with a great deal more humility. Without even flinching, Alphinaud spoke with the firm resolve anyone who knew him had come to respect. "I, Alphinaud Leveilleur, am innocent of this charge, and claim my right to trial by combat!"

By his side, Tataru was trying (and not completely succeeding) to put on a brave face. "I, Tataru Taru, am innocent of this charge…" She gulped audibly before continuing. "But I am no warrior, and cannot fight, so I claim the right to name a champion!"

Once more the air buzzed with whispers. No scandalous gossip this time though. The crowd's shock and incredulity were quite real, not to mention quite vocal. Trial by combat against the Heavens' Ward? It was as much a death sentence as the charge of heresy itself! They had all known it was coming. That was the purpose of this gathering, after all, but it didn't really sink in until they _heard_ the accused personally say it out loud.

Furthermore, no one here would _dare_ take up arms on Mistress Tataru's behalf. Shameful as it was to stand idly by as the poor girl was ripped to pieces alongside the elezen lad, there was nothing anyone could do. The only alternative was for someone to pointlessly take her place and get ripped to pieces by the Heavens' Ward knights in her stead. Selfless to the extreme, yet ultimately pointless as the champion's death would reflect upon the accused they stood for as the Fury's judgment, and Tataru would either die or be left to rot in gaol.

The two wards of House Fortemps were trapped, and everyone in the room knew it. House Dzemael had played well.

Either ignorant or unconcerned with the grim reality of the situation, the High Adjudicator gave Tataru a small nod. "To the old and the infirm, the young and the weak, this right we allow. Very well." Then to the crowd, he posed the million-gil question. "Who will stand for this woman?"

Grinnaux and Paulecrain made no effort to keep the smug, shite-eating grins off their faces. After all, who could _possibly_ stand against the likes of _them_? They cast their gaze over the Tribunal, practically daring someone here to _try_ and stop them, only to stop when their eyes fell on Lord Haurchefant. He actually gave _them_ a shite-eating grin before turning to look at the large iron doors through which Tataru and Alphinaud had previously entered the Tribunal.

Not seconds later, those same doors were thrown open with such violent force that they nearly came off their hinges. Grinnaux and Paulecrain both frowned at this display of strength, and save for a handful of gasps, the entire crowd became silent as a grave.

The gasps and whispers started up again as Mistress Tataru's champion revealed himself. They all watched, awestruck, as well over six fulms of angry half-breed marched into the Tribunal as if he owned the place. A greatsword just as massive as its wielder rested on his back, and the expression in his golden eyes was nothing short of _livid_.

Haurchefant of the Silver Fuller couldn't resist the golden opportunity. Honestly, Malcolm would thank him for it later. "The _Warrior of Light_ will stand for his friend!" the young lord shouted at the top of his lungs.

Whatever House Dzemael had hoped to gain, they now stood to lose far more than they could afford. This rigged game of theirs had been turned on its head, its stakes raised beyond measure. Whoever was pulling Grinnaux's strings thought the two wards of House Fortemps to be mere pawns, easily captured in a stab at their rival. Now all of Ishgard would see that those "pawns" were under the violent protection of the single most dangerous man in Eorzea.

Simply put, Grinnaux was about to learn a very painful lesson.

* * *

Alphinaud let out a breath of relief he hadn't known he was holding as Tataru leapt up and down while spinning in a circle. "Just as I was beginning to doubt the efficacy of the Ishgardian justice system! Come, my friend – let us put an end to this mummer's farce!"

Malcolm said nothing, merely offering Tataru the warm smile that only his closest friends knew to interpret as _"Don't worry, it's all gonna be fine."_ It wasn't long, however, before he stopped smiling and fixed Ser Grinnaux with a glare. Oh, if looks could kill, this trial by combat would have ended before even starting.

A champion now stood for the woman, thus the trial could now proceed. The High Adjudicator turned and looked to his right, then his left, and when he received unanimous nods to the affirmative from his fellow judges on both sides, he rose to his feet and held out one hand as the floor below him shifted into a proper arena.

Giving a final reassuring nod to Tataru before she was ushered out of the way, Malcolm strode up to meet the Heavens' Ward knights in the center. Taking his place on Alphinaud's left, he made sure to stand just slightly out ahead and in front of the boy. "You know, when I encouraged you to hone your skills, I expected you to practice spells on a training dummy, not pick a fight with the Archbishop's personal guard." The Midlander mongrel grinned over his shoulder at his young friend. "Must the Leveilleur family do _everything_ on a grand scale?"

" _This_ coming from Eorzea's _Primal-slayer_?" Alphinaud countered smoothly as he reached for his half-grimoire, Adelphoi. He may not be an unstoppable force of nature like the Warrior of Light, but he _was_ a highly proficient arcanist. "I shall do what I can to support you, Malcolm." He allowed himself a small smirk now that the odds no longer overwhelmingly favored his opposition. "Now, let us teach these noble sers the folly of bearing false witness!"

The High Adjudicator held out his hand again, and everyone fell silent as he cried out in prayer. "O Halone, render unto us Your judgment! Raise up the righteous, and cast down the wicked!"

And then it began.

" _As you know, I died here in_ _ **my**_ _trial by combat. See if you can do better."_

Malcolm growled at Fray's tone but didn't respond, nor did he reach for the greatsword on his back even as the two knights drew their weapons and Alphinaud flipped open his grimoire. He was perfectly content to let the blood-red aura writhing around him do all the talking. It had quite a lot to say about rage, hate, and pain.

Clearly something was lost in translation though, as Ser Paulecrain just sneered at the so-called Warrior of Light. "Well, well, who do we have here?" With a twirl of his lance, he advanced on Malcolm. "This one is mine, Ser Grinnaux. Go and play with the boy."

"Hmph, bloody waste of…" Grinnaux muttered under his breath, disappointed that Paulecrain would have all the fun. Still, he turned to Alphinaud and charged like his eponymous title, axe raised above his head. "Come on, then! You wanted this, remember?!"

Alphinaud's spells weren't even slowing the brute down. He may as well have been pelting Ser Grinnaux with snowballs for all the good it did. This was not about power though. Alphinaud's greatest strength was, and would always be, his mind. He _wanted_ this thug looking at him, to focus _entirely_ on the small boy he intended to cut down in a single swing of his axe…

Except the swing never came. At least not while Malcolm's iron grip on the haft kept it from moving so much as an ilm towards Alphinaud. And that was just the Warrior of Light's right hand. His left hand was similarly holding onto Paulecrain's halberd, keeping the bladed end pointed up and away from him.

"No Grinnaux," Malcolm snarled. " _You_ wanted this! You _started_ this when you cried heresy where there was none." Kicking Paulecrain hard enough through his armor that the dragoon was left doubled over and gasping for air, he cocked back his now-free left hand before planting it squarely in Grinnaux's face.

"You started this," Malcolm repeated slowly. "Now I intend to _finish_ it." He finally drew his greatsword and took a proper stance. "Pray to Halone all you want, but the only 'fury' rendering judgment here is _mine_!"

And because they were focused entirely on _Malcolm_ this time, it was _Alphinaud_ who was now free to engage their enemies, casting a lengthy and explosive spell beneath their feet. It was essentially just an upscaled Ruin, but the child prodigy would take his victories where he could get them these days. And the sight of two Heavens' Ward knights tumbling arse over teakettle on the floor _definitely_ qualified as a victory.

Now after getting knocked around twice, however, said knights were thoroughly pissed off and no longer had any intention of "playing" with their opponents. As Paulecrain jumped to engage Malcolm once more, Grinnaux took another shot at Alphinaud. "I've had enough of your tricks!" he yelled before lashing out at the boy with a chain of aether-imbued Ishgardian steel.

When Malcolm heard his friend cry out in pain, when he _saw_ his friend bound and writhing in agony like that…

"Hah!" Paulecrain taunted, "a fine champion _you_ are!"

" _Oh, you sods just made a_ _ **big**_ _mistake."_

Whatever self-restraint Malcolm had left at that point immediately _snapped_ as he charged straight for Grinnaux like a man possessed. Paulecrain moved to intercept him, only to get backhanded across the face for his efforts.

"Oh don't worry, you're _next_ ," the Warrior of Light warned the dragoon, his golden eyes remaining locked on Grinnaux the whole time as he leapt into the air and brought his greatsword down on the warrior's glowing chain. Beneath the weight of Malcolm's fury, not to mention that of the blade itself, the chain shattered into countless pieces.

Having come in perpendicular to the chain, Malcolm was now in a crouched position with Grinnaux on his left and a barely-conscious Alphinaud on his right. Grinnaux made the obvious choice to attack the Warrior of Light's now-exposed flank, but turned out to be _precisely_ the wrong thing to do.

"I will see you _break_!" Malcolm roared as he spun left underneath the head of Grinnaux's axe before driving his knee into the man's armored sternum hard enough to lift them both off the ground. While airborne, he brought his other knee up and hit Grinnaux in the same spot hard enough to carry them even higher. Still in midair, Malcolm lunged at the knight and took hold of him by the face. Then, in full view of the Tribunal and all present, the Warrior of Light called upon the abyssal power of the Void itself, channeling it within the palm of his hand.

Malcolm blasted Grinnaux point blank in the head once, twice, _three times_ with unaspected magick as they fell back to the ground. Upon landing, the Midlander mongrel promptly introduced his victim's self-righteous skull to the floor hard enough to generate a sick cracking noise.

Scorched and thoroughly beaten, Grinnaux managed to glare up at the Warrior of Light one final time before his world went black.

"One down," he growled, not remotely concerned by the fact that he'd just outed himself as a _Dark_ _Knight_ in a room full of _Ishgardian_ _church_ _and_ _state_ _officials_. No, Malcolm didn't care about that at all. This power came at a cost, possibly the highest, but he would gladly pay it. All those gawking nobles up in the crowd would _never_ understand. They saw a monster anathema to their faith, and quite frankly, that only served to further prove his point:

It was proof that Malcolm would go to _any_ length for his friends. Obviously he was willing to fight, kill, and if necessary, die for them…

"Heathen swine!" Paulecrain shouted as he jumped almost to the ceiling before diving down and slamming his spear into the floor, filling the entire arena with a grid of aetheric lightning orbs.

This went beyond mere _death_ , however…

Malcolm imbued his greatsword with the Void and plunged it _through_ the floor, causing dozens of curved, blood-red spikes to rise out of the ground, one for every orb of lightning Paulecrain had generated. The orbs were impaled by the dark magicks and swallowed whole by the abyss, leaving naught but a terrified Paulecrain in their wake.

This easy, eager adoption of the Dark Knight's power was a statement: that Malcolm would _gladly damn himself_ for his friends.

Once more, Paulecrain attacked him, slashing and stabbing with his halberd at what _should_ have been an easy target, only for the Warrior of Light to block and dodge around him in a nigh on effortless Dark Dance before smashing the dragoon back six fulms with a single blow. "My turn, Coldfire," he growled. He leapt forward with almost as much inhuman strength as Paulecrain, and the man only barely had time to block the greatsword from cutting him in twain. "What gives _you_ the right to call _me_ a heathen, dragoon? Is the source of your power not more taboo than my drawing upon the Void?"

Paulecrain let out an almost feral snarl as he spun and swung his halberd, not truly aiming for Malcolm so much as hoping the onslaught would cut him ribbons. Rather than backpedal, the Warrior of Light answered in kind. His greatsword was slow and heavy, but the latter trait was something Malcolm used to his advantage. The weight served to offset the weapon's lack of speed as the Midlander mongrel used the momentum of every strike to power the next so that either he or his greatsword was moving at all times. Against the relentless and unorthodox barrage, Paulecrain was inevitably going to tire out first.

And when he _did_ tire out, Malcolm was right there waiting to capitalize on it. Trying to gain some breathing room, Paulecrain jumped away, but the Warrior of Light snagged him by the leg and flung the dragoon back down onto the ground before stomping on the selfsame leg _hard_. Ser Paulecrain's scream almost drowned out the sound of a snapping shinbone. _Almost_.

"What was that about me being a fine champion?" Malcolm growled as he pressed harder, earning another agonized cry from his victim. "Try jumping now you little shite!" The entire crowd thought he would finish Paulecrain off, but instead Malcolm turned and motioned to his own brother-in-arms. "Alphinaud!" he shouted.

It was not a call for help. Far from it, Malcolm could have easily ripped off Paulecrain's legs and ended this on his own, but what would that truly accomplish? He was _Tataru's_ _champion_. House Dzemael's elite lapdogs had charged _Tataru_ and _Alphinaud_ with fomenting heresy, not him. They believed his friends and charges to be the weaker, easier prey.

Malcolm would have Alphinaud set them straight by having the boy deliver the coup de grâce instead of doing it himself. It would send a clear message that the Scions, for all their recent losses, were still a proud and powerful force in the realm. And that nobody, not even the holiest knights of Ishgard, would be suffered to threaten them without grave retribution.

Holding his grimoire out, Alphinaud loosed a sick, debilitating miasma on Paulecrain, rendering the already-crippled dragoon unconscious in seconds.

Malcolm chuckled wryly as his blood read aura faded away. "Ladies and gentlemen, court is adjourned."

* * *

Needless to say, Malcolm's victory had become the talk of Ishgard before he'd even made it out of the arena. Aymeric and Count Edmont were overseeing his friends' release, and Lord Haurchefant was in the main hall to congratulate him.

"I knew it, I knew you would succeed!" the young lord exclaimed the second Malcolm came through the door. "Well done my friend!"

Up in the personal seats of the Archbishop and his personal guard sat Ser Zephirin, the Very Reverend Archimandrite of the Heavens' Ward. He watched carefully how the mongrel greeted Lord Haurchefant, bastard son of Count Edmont de Fortemps. They met each other as brothers, laughter, claps on the back, all the usual overenthusiastic celebratory behavior – wait did Lord Haurchefant just call a black chocobo in the cathedral!? No matter, the young lord's foolish antics brought a genuine _smile_ to Malcolm's face.

Ser Zephirin found the sight… _reassuring_ actually. After what the Very Reverend Archimandrite had just seen the Warrior of Light do to Grinnaux and Paulecrain, it was good to know there was still a mortal _man_ beneath all of that monstrous rage.

After all, men bled _much_ more easily than monsters…

* * *

 _Eorzea: Eastern Thanalan  
Sandgate: Halatali_

Darkness permeated the air, anger seeped into the stone as the ground became slick with the blood of traitors.

" **Did I not promise to kill you all!?"**

The former Grand Company of the Scions, the Crystal Braves had been commanded "officially" by Alphinaud Leveilleur, but as they discovered on that tragic day in Ul'dah, nothing could be further from the truth. While some few like Riol had signed on for the noble goal of peace and a brighter future for Eorzea, the bitter reality was that the vast majority of Crystal Braves had sold out to Teledji Adeleji and Lord Lolorito before they even donned their uniforms.

A poor choice in hindsight. No amount of gil would save them from _this_. Twelve above, what had they been _thinking_!? What had _Ilberd_ been thinking!?

" **This is for Yda and Papalymo!"**

He was the _Warrior_ _of_ _Light_!

" **For Thancred and Y'shtola!"**

He was a professional _god-killer_!

" **For Minfilia!"**

He smashed the XIV Legion _and_ the Ultima Weapon! Then he'd, oh _shite_ , he'd banished an Ascian. And he'd bloody _killed_ another just a few moons ago…

" **For the Scions!"**

In short, Malcolm wasn't so much a man as he was the single most destructive reactionary force of vengeance in written history… and the Crystal Braves had _intentionally_ pissed him off!

One by one, they paid for their betrayal in blood. Malcolm was the reaper of a debt that never forgave, crushing all resistance under his heel as he brought the power of the Dark Knight to bear on an entire privatized Grand Company. Against anyone else, they may have stood a chance.

He wasn't anyone else, and they were out of chances in his eyes.

It wasn't long before he reached Raubahn, with Alphinaud and Yugiri following close behind. While Malcolm carved apart the bulk of the Crystal Braves, they had been left to deal with some few stragglers, archers beyond the reach of his greatsword, and any with the belated good sense to try and run for their lives.

When they finally located Raubahn, the path behind them was sealed and the room itself flooded with poison.

Yuyuhase thought (hoped) that would be enough to kill the bastard. Not even the Warrior of Light could fight against the air… could he?

Black and red aether swallowed the gate and a greatsword slammed into it again and again as Malcom pulverized the oversized door from within and without simultaneously.

Of _course_ he could! Fighting this monster was beginning to feel like an exercise in futility: they may as well be trying to douse Ifrit's Inferno by pissing on the flames. Yuyuhase figured that now was a _very_ could time to get Ilberd.

As if that would make any difference…

* * *

"I should have known," Ilberd sneered as he approached the sorry lot he'd betrayed without hesitation in Ul'dah. "What are clever contrivances to the Warrior of Light?" He scoffed at the lofty title, but even he had to admit, Malcolm was a tenacious bastard. "…Well done, _hero_."

Whatever else Ilberd, Yuyuhase, Laurentius, or anyone else was planning to say, none of it would ever be heard. Malcolm hated being called a hero enough when people were _sincere_. To hear Ilberd use it with such heavy sarcasm was the last straw. All the emotion that had built up since the events in Ul'dah. All the anger, all the hate, all the searing _pain_ at how helpless he'd been to save any of his friends that horrible night…

Every onze of it came flooding out of his soul at once, crying a single name:

" _ **ILBERD!"**_

The dross at the traitor's flank hardly mattered, and regardless, if they weren't killed outright by the weight of his abyssal aether, then they were quickly dispatched by Yugiri or Alphinaud. That left Ilberd at his mercy, even if the bastard didn't know it yet.

"I am _not_ a hero!" Malcolm roared. "I am a deterrent!" As he screamed, he unleashed all seven Hells on Ilberd. Slashes, kicks, explosions of black magick, and even a headbutt to the bridge of his opponent's nose that left the Highlander seeing stars. "I promise _ruin_ to my enemies that I might _protect_ my friends! I offer naught but retribution so thorough in its brutality that none would _dare_ to cross me for fear of the devastation it would bring upon their heads! _You_ crossed me Ilberd! Guess what happens now?"

The Ala Mhigan extremist snarled and rushed straight at Malcolm. As skilled as Ilberd was with a blade, however, he was at a disadvantage on multiple levels. First of all, the Warrior of Light was stronger, faster, definitely meaner, and all-around _better_. Second, Ishgard's isolationist policy had once again worked in his favor against the Crystal Braves, as none outside of the Northern regions had ever encountered a Dark Knight before today. The deadly combination of sword, fist, and Void was unlike anything Ilberd had ever seen, let alone fought against. That didn't stop him from trying to fight anyway, naturally.

"For Ala Mhigo!" the Highlander cried.

Not even bothering with a proper parry, Malcolm easily sidestepped Ilberd's blade, grabbed his enemy by the wrist and snapped his arm like a dry twig in one fluid motion. "Heh, sloppy," he chuckled darkly. As his victim dropped his sword from the pain, the Midlander mongrel ripped away his shield as well before smashing it into Ilberd's face.

As Ilberd staggered back with no sword and no shield, clutching his broken arm, Malcolm called upon the Dark Arts, the sheer power of the Void momentarily lifting him off the ground before he channeled all the energy to his blade and unleashed it in three swift strokes. Upward, across, and then back down, each found its mark, scoring deep gashes across Ilberd's chest. Were it not for the heavy armor beneath his Crystal Brave uniform the Highlander would be on the ground in wet chunks right now.

"It is over Ilberd!" Alphinaud called out behind him.

The deductions that followed, especially concerning whether or not the Sultana was ever even assassinated to begin with, were certainly interesting. They'd taken the bite out of Ilberd, it would seem.

Like a rabid dog, however, and when biting failed, he resorted once more to barking. Specifically, he barked at Malcolm.

" _He never learns, does he Malcolm?"_

"If you think you fight for justice, lad, you'd best wake up. The truth is, you fight for whoever bloody well tells you to. Can you not see you're being used!? By the Scions, the city-states, even the Crystal Braves. They none of em care a whit what you want ─ only what you can do for them."

Alphinaud, Yugiri, and Raubahn all glanced at Malcolm to see his reaction, but the Warrior of Light remained silent and… amused? He was difficult to read sometimes.

"And how do I know this?" Ilberd continued. "Because I'm the same ─ a pawn to be used as my masters see fit. All I ever wanted was to liberate my homeland, and I ate _dirt_ to make it happen. But what have I achieved after all these years in servitude? _Nothing_! Not a bloody thing."

Malcolm cocked an eyebrow at that, but still he kept quiet and allowed the ranting to continue, much as he'd done with Livia so many moons ago.

And Ilberd certainly didn't disappoint, even with a broken arm and no hope of fighting back. "If we ourselves are not free ─ free to think and to act ─ how are we ever to reclaim our homeland? Know this: there is nothing I would not give to take back Ala Mhigo! NOTHING!"

The tirade was over, and at last Malcolm spoke, his tone unflinching, his words crystal clear.

"Serve… save… slave… slay," the Warrior of Light canted with a bitter half-chuckle as he remained shrouded in blood-red darkness. He planted his sword in the stone floor, leaned his weight against it, and stared Ilberd down. "Now _you_ , know _this_ : Whatever you _think_ you would give to take back Ala Mhigo, I would easily give _**tenfold more**_! Not just for the Scions but for any and all that I call friend!" Calming down slightly, Malcolm continued. "To walk the path is to suffer… to sacrifice." He yanked his greatsword out of the floor and spun it to rest over his shoulder. "Such is a Dark Knight's justice, only as real as I make it with my own two hands. You tell me to wake up, yet all you do is dream of Ala Mhigo. Can you even see what you've become, or are you just a diseased animal what needs to be put down?"

Had Ilberd not dropped a magitek flashbang grenade, Malcolm _would_ have put him down.

When he looked back on this day, he would always wish he _had_ put him down. Would certainly have saved the Warrior of Light a good two dozen headaches.

But that was a story for another time.

* * *

 **Long one, wasn't it? Those rants though. Still, it felt good. I don't even know if that many people read this story, but it sure feels good to write it. Also, not gonna lie,** _ **Stormblood**_ **has just as much, if not more potential for revenge chapters than** _ **Heavensward**_ **. That said,** _ **Heavensward**_ **still has the** _ **best**_ **opportunity. We all know what it is. And "that scene" is coming up next time, along with the first fight against Nidhogg. I sort of wanted to see if putting Nidhogg, Estinien, and my equally revenge-oriented Warrior of Light all in the same boss arena would cause the Aery to explode from an excess of awesome. Guess we'll find out next time eh? Until then, of course…**

 **Read, Review, and Enjoy!**


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